


Its just an experiment

by captain_0bvious



Series: struggles in London [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addictions, Depression, Gen, Its not all depressing, Lets hurt the boys, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mycroft shops in casual wear, Other, Own twist, PTSD (kinda obvious but ya), Past Abuse, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Self-Harm, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Sherlock self harms, Slow Build Relationships, but he swears its just for an experiment, dangerous experiments, i swear there will be fun, little bit of eating disorders, our boys need to look after themselves, past/current sexual abuse, some fluff though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21847042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_0bvious/pseuds/captain_0bvious
Summary: ahem, so first off: TRIGGER WARNINGS APPLY! So yes, read the tags, please, i don't want to trigger anyone.It all began with a case, and a question, 'Why do people go for self harm?' Thats all, of course, all his experiments started with a question, but this will be fine, he'll stop once he has his findings, of course he will.John and Lestrade have noticed that Sherlock is acting weird, weirder than normal anyway, ever since the case with suspected suicide, both of them express their concerns to Mycroft, whose worry grow for his dear younger brother. Its not the first time Sherlock has done that, not that he remembers of course.Meanwhile, Lestrade is having flashbacks to a past he had tried to forget, falling back onto old coping mechanisms.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: struggles in London [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573951
Comments: 7
Kudos: 42





	1. The start of it all

The music that had been helping John fall asleep had stopped, and over the fading echos of the final notes, he heard murmers, before he got gently shaken awake. Blinking awake, he focused blurry eyed on the figure of his best friend and room mate, Sherlock. He rubbed his eyes hard and focused on the clock behind him, groaning and closing his eyes again.

"Sherlock, its 2am, whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait."  
  
"No it can't, Glenn called us on a case."

"Glenn- you mean Greg, who the hell kills someone at 2am??"

"We'll find out when we get there, now come onnnnnn, I'm boredddddddddd."

John thrust his hands out, in one he received his on-the-go coffee mug, which he sipped at, and the other, Sherlocks warm slender hand, and together they got the Doctor on his feet. He drank more of his coffee and stared at his friend, who was vibrating with excitement, and, something else, with a glance, he noticed two nicotine patches on his arm, but no track marks as of late. Before John had the chance to notice anything else, he was dragged out the door and into a waiting cab, out of habit, he looked at the cabbie driver, he'd never gotten over his first case, and Sherlocks small sigh of relief told him the same thing, they sat it in silence all the way to the crime scene, but seriously, who kills someone so early?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Hey Freak! Freaks toy, he's inside already."

John clenched his fist at his side, shooting a glare towards Donovan as he walked past her, before running into Sherlock's tense back, with a grumble he moved to beside him and looked at the scene before him, a gasp escaping his mouth. Before them lay a woman, still so young, her blond hair splayed out behind her head, a pool of blood lay below her, evident by large slashes down her arms that still oozed blood at a slower wait. When Sherlock didn't immediately start examining the body like he normally does, John glanced at him, alarmed to see the normally unemotional Sherlock Holmes, the one who refuted emotions claiming they were illogical, completely shut down, looking like a statue, with his eyes flicking over the body. 

"Sherlock? Did you know her?"

"No, of course not John, don't be ridiculous."

Swooping on the body, Sherlock quickly his investigation, pulling out his magnifying glass, and running through his findings.

_Aged mid twenties._

_Many smaller scars under these final cuts._

_Some scars are more shaky than others, showing emotional distress multiple times._

_She has a bottle of prescribed anti-depressants on the counter top, been battling depression 3, no, 5 years, no, more than that._

_Deep frown lines in her forehead, evident even with a relaxed forehead, no, not relaxed, still slightly furrowed, as if her final thoughts chased her._

_Dried tear tracks down her cheeks further demonstrates that, so, further than depression then, PTSD, but what for what cause._

_Clothes, are typically long sleeved and loose, no skirts, pants, almost like she wanted to hide, doesn't help much though._

_Hasn't been sleeping well, or eating too much lately._

_There is no note, no note isn't common when committing suicide._

"John, if you will, please?"

With a small nod, John got as close as he could examining the body as close as he could, without touching the blood, standing once he was finished.

"Alright, cause of death was a mix of blood loss, and of an overdose-" a muffled curse coming from Sherlock caused John to glance up, with a wave of his hand, he continued, "an overdose, likely a mix of painkillers and her antidepressants. She had a history of self harm, which is evident on the scars below the main cut, I'd say this is just a suicide."

Lestrade nodded with a sigh, running his hands through his ever graying hair, he looked like he had aged 20 years since they entered, ready to close the case, until Sherlock jumped in.  
  


"You say just a suicide John, but as always, you never, never observe! Wheres the note?? Theres always a suicide note!"

"Not if the person killing themselves feels they truly are alone and that no one would notice or care they are gone," John spoke up quietly, and in the silence that followed, Sherlock remembered one of the deductions he had first made about his roommate when they first met. _All alone, sees no point in being around, ready to depart life as he knew it._

"My apologies, regardless, she was making progress, she was on a new prescription, she was seeing a therapist, she was getting better, someone getting better wouldn't commit, wouldn't do this, Gerome, I know there is more to this case."

"You know best Sherlock, when its bagged I'll send you the laptop and phone, so you may do your thing with those."

With an absent nod, Sherlock strode back out, quieter than ever, and getting into a cab without John by his side, or noticing. John walked over to what he noticed, and gestures Lestrade over to what he spotted, pointing silently to a singular mans foot print, mostly obstructed by her coat, hazardously discarded on the floor, closer investigation lead to a more sinister to what had occurred. Just when John was about to leave the scene, he got a call, glancing at the number and sighed, answering it.

"Put me on speaker."

With some grumbling, John did so. "Speak Mycroft."

"Greg my dear, I couldn't go back to sleep when you left, so I took a look at the case you are currently on, and feel it is my duty to tell the two of you to keep an eye on my brother more so than usual. The nature of this case could strike close to him."

"What, are you saying he knows someone who committed suicide?"

"No, and I am not currently at liberty to say why Doctor Wilson, as it is quite frankly none of your business, just look after him."

With that he hung up, Lestrade sighed and apologised, before leaving for the night, offering John a ride home upon realising Sherlock had already left. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When he was alone he rubbed at his burning scars, lighting up a cigarette that didn't last long at all to soothe his shot nerves, feeling the tension ebb out of him, putting the butt out on his arm, next to a collection of similar scars, he drove home. Arriving he got out and sat on the porch, not yet wanting to go inside, despite seeing the light on in his kitchen, instead shakily lighting his second cigarette, savouring this one more, ripping off the nicotine patch he had on, and stubbing out the butt on his arm again, carefully rolling down his sleeve and heading in, towards the kitchen.

Mycroft knew when Greg got home, just like he knew he had smoked, twice before arriving home, and finally, he knew that tomorrow might or might not cost him a chat about his eating habits. In front of him sat a generous slice of cake with a helping of ice cream covered in syrup, with a full glass of whiskey which he sipped. He happily leaned back into his partner, inhaling the scent of smoke, along with an underlining of blood, and the ever sharp scent of cinnamon, offering up a second hug, and a glass of whiskey. The two sat in a tense silence for a while as Mycroft finished off his snack, and having half his whiskey, before sighing and opening his mouth.

"I took the liberty of looking up the girl of your latest case as i knew neither of us would sleep when you returned. Her name is Ashley Ryader, her father was never in the picture, and her mother and her younger brother died in a car crash when she was 6. From then she lived with her grandparents, she has a history of sexual abuse, a close family friend took child pornagraphic images of her, when she was 8, he was arrested on charges of multiple child pornagraphic charges. When she developed breasts, her grandfather would grope her breasts from behind when she sat on his lap, later on, at the age of 16 he indecently exposed himself to her, telling her 'this is a mans penis.' She ran away not long after that, finding her way to London and living on the streets, she was admitted to A&E on multiple occasions, most were for various attempts, and others were for alcohol poisoning. After many months she cleaned up, found a flat and was studying Psychology, she was raped just a few months ago in an alley after a late study session. I do believe for a while she may have been a part of my dear brother's Homeless network, but I am unsure of that."

He drained his glass and refilled it, rearranging his mask upon his face, and looking at his silent lover, freezing as it shatters at the sight of a hyperventilating Greg, struggling desperately to light a cigarette. It didn't take long for Mycroft to snap into battle stations, first off lighting the cigarette for him and placing it in his mouth, being careful not to touch him much, before quickly grabbing his safety blanket and soft toy, wrapping the blanket around Greg and handing him the toy, finally lining up his cocktail of medications, watching his eyes dart about and move as if watching a scene only he could see.   
  
Finally he sat beside him and kept an eye on him, replacing cigarettes as needed, taking each butt and stubbing it out in the ash tray, wincing as he missed one and watching as his boyfriend made a new mark on his arm. When he finally came out of it, he crumpled into Myc's waiting arms, allowing him to feed each pill to him with whiskey, before Myc carried him up to bed, waiting as the sleeping pill kicked in, before staying up to protect him from any nightmares.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At 221b Baker Street, John yelled at Sherlock for once again leaving him behind at a crime scene without warning, without waiting for him, until he yawned too many times, and went up to his own room, warning the detective to sleep in his own bed tonight, greatful that Mrs Hudson was looking after Rosie. 

As soon as John headed up he paced the living room, thinking to himself.

_What is it about self harm that makes one go back to it? Apart from a release of chemicals, Why do they? there must be a reason._ _More importantly, why would Ashley? she'd gotten her life together, of course, I'd known her, not that John could know, I met her on the streets, after she'd run away, she wasn't boring. Her walls were too high for me to deduce much at all from her, the only clear thing I got was she was running away from abuse, she was perceptive too, could see things that many others couldn't, and she understood I was running away too. Though, I lost count how many times I had to call an ambulance for her, too many attempts, and alcohol poisonings, there was a time we both over dosed, but something in her took over and she helped me through it, I didn't see her for a few days after that, and when she came back she looked worse, in order to not see her dead, I made a pact with her, we'd both get into rehab, her for her alcoholism, and me for my drug addiction, once we were sober, I'd help her into university, to study Psychology, something she'd always wanted. She was doing so well, why would she do this? It wasn't her, not_ _anymore._

Sherlock escaped into his mind palace, drawing on the memory of Ashley, and looking her over as he'd last seen her, looking over everything, until, _ding._

**I took the liberty of sending you all I found on your latest case victim, Gregory has been informed, if you did know her, don't be stubborn, just read it regardless.** **MH.  
  
  
  
**He glanced at the file sent, before pushing it aside, grabbing a new clean notebook, he had a new experiment to run. He opened the notebook to the first page, labelling it ' _The reason for self harm'_ and looking up the topic first off, noting down everything, including the chemicals released, before with a clean blade, made a small incision on his arm, grinning at the adrenaline that rushed through his veins, letting it bleed for a while while he wrote down his findings on it, even noting the size of the incision, and the length of time it bled.

Once he was done, he hid the notebook in a hiding spot that hadn't yet been found in drug raids, and dressed the wound, lying in bed as thoughts of the crime scene floated in his head. Playing his violin until he fell asleep.


	2. The case thickens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, there is gonna be a tad more detail in terms of the victim, and a hell of a lot of detail into sexual abuse towards the end in this chapter, keep yourself safe, i warned you.

Sherlock woke to his violin gone, presumably back in its case on his desk, a still steaming cup of tea on his bed side table, and a rustling of papers. He shot up and stared at John who sat beside him, reading Ashley's file, a frown etched on his brow as he read, which disappeared when he saw Sherlock was awake, straightening the ruffled curls and handing over the file.   
  
"Hey, you're awake, I'm sorry about last night, I know how you get about these cases. So, did you know her? Was she, part of your homeless network?"  
  
Sherlock shook his head, reading over the file, inwardly smirking when he saw that all of Mycroft's intelligence never picked up the time he had spent with Ashley during his stint on the streets. He drank his tea, ignoring his phone when it went off, setting the files across his desk, he brought up last nights crime scene and grabbed his violin, playing as he thought it over, unaware of John watching the detective with amusement, his phone went off again, but he was too deep in thought to notice. The only thing that stopped him was when he smelt something, and he and John ended up speaking at the same time.  
  
  
"Mycroft is here."  
  
  
"Wait, how do you know? You've been playing for the last half an hour."  
  
  
"Because John, he's brought us a cake."  
  
  
"As ever, your sense of smell is sharp, brother mine."

Mycroft entered the room, in his hands a coffee cake decorated in icing. His umbrella swinging, as the two stared at each other, the tension rising between them. With a sigh, John strode forth and took the cake, carrying it into the kitchen and shutting the door, grumbling at the mess littering the table as he puts the kettle on.   
  
  
Meanwhile, the two brothers sit opposite each other in silence, each looking over them, finally Sherlock pulled out his bottle of whiskey and two glasses while Mycroft at the same time pulled out a packet of cigarettes, offering one to Sherlock, who noticed the amount in the packet and the brand, which wasn't his brothers usual brand, the got lit and the two inhaled deeply. As he exhaled, Mycroft looked around the room, eyes focusing on the file and violin, before taking another look over his younger brother, keeping a guarded mask up. Before either of them could start speaking, John walked in, carrying a tray with two cups, a kettle full of tea, a sugar bowl and milk, as well as a couple of slices of cake on a plate, he set it down on the table between the two, sighing and holding the ash tray under both of their cigarettes just before ash fell onto the table, and placing it down.  
  
  
"Alright boys, do you two need me to stay here as a mediator? Or can you two behave enough so I may go out?"  
  
"We'll be fine Doctor Watson. Thank you."

With a nod, he left, leaving the Holmes brothers staring at each other until they stubbed out their butts in the tray.  
  
  
"Mycroft. I see you have gone back to baking, who would have thought this case would affect you so? Is it because you knew she was close to me? Or something else?"  
  
  
"Sherlock, do shut up. I simply felt the desire to do such a thing and thought I would bring you one. Though I did have a suspicion you knew her, your behaviour has confirmed it for me. Are you any closer to discovering her killer?"  
  
  
The two paused, Mycroft to pour the tea and dish out sugar, Sherlock to take a bite of the cake, smiling at the taste in spite of him not usually eating as it slows down his thinking. After another bite he continued.

  
"What makes you so sure there is a killer brother dear?"  
  
  
"Please. Don't insult my intelligence. There was no note for starters, and apart from the assault on her a few months ago, she was doing well."  
  
  
"John reminded me some people don't leave notes as some don't have people to leave one for."  
  
  
"Oh, of course, he would know."

"Indeed. Oh, how is, Lestrade? I noticed you have his brand of cigarettes again, I also see it is a new box, and yet several are already missing, did he have a bad night?"  
  
  
Instead of answering, Mycroft simply sighed and finished a slice of cake, and immediately grabbed another, ignoring the raised eyebrow from his brother, returning one of his own when Sherlock put down half of the cake and drew his knees up to his chest, grabbing the files and flicking through them again, finally looking at the crime scene photos Lestrade sent him. A small frown creased his brow, and he took the offered lit cigarette as he inspected it, something didn't feel right to him, but he wasn't sure what it was. Something clicked and he muttered something about needing to see the body, putting on his coat and scarf and leapt down the stairs, bounding into his brothers car, calling up to the flat, "Come on Mycroft!" The smallest of smiles ordained Mycroft's face as with practiced manners he pulled on his own coat and grabbed his umbrella, getting in the care and telling his driver to take them to St Barts hospital.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Hello Molly! I'm here to see Ashley Ryader thank you!"

  
Sherlock breezed in, stopping when he saw Ashley's face, before recovering his composure. He stepped closer to the body, pulling the sheet down, and looking over the various scars that littered her body, without a thought he took the gloves Molly offered and pulled them on, unaware of her offering the same to Mycroft, as the two examined the body silently.

  
  
 _Most of these scars are years old, however she has some more recent ones, most noticeable on her thighs, thats certainly where she got deeper.  
_ _Her most recent was only the other week, Molly clearly peeled off the band-aid she had over it, she had cut deep enough to expose a white layer of fat, clearly she kept a good mask up or her professors overseeing her classes would have noticed, unless they were complete morons.  
She had problems with her body, more than once, multiple times she attempted to slice off what she perceived to be fat, leaving dents and large scars, she also once attempted to slice off her chest, so, body dysphoria, maybe she got over all the attention she got for it.   
_ _She transgressed to stabbing over cutting over time, and in times of desperation stabbed her stomach, requiring at one point to need surgery.  
Onto her arms themselves, both slices are steady, inconsistent with one arm already cut open along the arteries, both arms got sliced right between the ulnar and radius through to the other side, so that any chance of stopping blood flow was harder.  
Conclusion: someone out there killed her._

 _  
  
_Sherlock turned to look at his brother, frowning when he noticed him gone, and he turned to Molly inquisitively, noticing her face change from an expression he couldn't recognise to professional.

  
"He left about 5 minutes ago, he tried speaking to you but you seemed too deep in thought. Are you okay? I've never seen you be so, gentle with a corpse before."  
  
  
"I'm fine, I simply thought I'd try something different, given the circumstances."  
  
  
She nodded, frowning when he gave her a list of things to check in both the blood and stomach contents before looking over the body once more. He stood there staring for over 20 minutes, until she nudged him and informed him his phone went off.   
  
  
**We found another body, seems to be related. John is already on his way. - Lestrade.**

With a nod of thanks he strode out, leaving behind a confused Molly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lestrade awaited for him when he got out of the taxi, John beside him, after warning the two this one was worse, he lead them up, past Anderson and Donovan who couldn't resist a "Hi Freak!" When they reached the room, they received another warning, and entered, followed soon after by Anderson and Donovan. This time, the victim was male, shakily written on one of the white walls was 'I can't take this anymore' in blood, it was clearly written by their victim, as his fingers were covered, and a hand print matched his hand. Like Ashley, his wrists were sliced, this time multiple times, and like her, they were sliced all the way through, in addition, his head had been shot, judging by the spray it was shot from a .45 caliber, the same one that was dropped in a pool of the blood. With care, Sherlock got closer to examine the spray, noting the span of it, before spotting the bullet lodged in the wall opposite the note. It seemed staged, Sherlocks phone alerted him to a text, and he handed it to John to read as he carefully pulled out the bullet out of the wall, and dropped it into a evidence bag that Anderson hesitantly held out, before going into the hole and pulling out a rolled up wrapper, unraveling it at the same time John spoke up.  
  
  
"Sherlock... its Molly. She said the last victim, Ashley was raped, likely before she died. She found traces of tearing, and a used condom, with no DNA found, but she is looking."

  
Everyone looked to the condom wrapper in Sherlock's hands, before he dropped it into a new evidence bag. Attention was drawn back to the body, the same thought on everyone's mind.  
  
  
"Freak, what are the odds the same, happened to him?" Donovan gestures to the victim.  
  
  
"Oh do use your brain. We found a condom wrapper, hidden in an obvious place, and the last victim was, assaulted, the chances are so high even Anderson could guess."  
  
  
"Whats that to mean?"  
  
  
"It means use that empty space you call a head for once."  
  
  
He strode back out before fully examining the body, with a resigned sigh, John looked towards Lestrade for permission, after a slight pause, it was given, with glazed over eyes. Brushing off the behaviour, he crouched beside the victim, pulling out a spare magnifying glass he took from Sherlock once, looking closer at the arms, before moving into the head wound, ignoring the two scoffs behind him, before getting back up and leaving, opting to walk back to the flat, feeling no need to vocalise his findings, he was simply confirming what they all already knew.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Greg jumped a foot into the air when he felt a hand on his shoulder.   
  
  
"Boss? Are you okay?"  
  
  
"I'm fine, just coming down with something I think, I might just go home now, I may not make it in tomorrow."  
  
  
Ignoring the frown he got, he made his way to his car on auto pilot. Driving back to the house he shared with Mycroft, more accurately, Mycroft bought for them. He knew he'd be alone for several hours, as Myc had back to back meetings all day, which he would cancel in a second if Gregory requested it, but he needed time alone.

  
When he got home he staggered up the stairs, a flood of sensations and memories overwhelming him, his shaky hand forced the key into the lock and unlocked it, entering and slamming the door shut, collapsing against it as he remembered being torn apart by a monstrous object, feeling the rocking sensation, in a sense of panic checking his pants as he feels liquid on the back of his pants, shaking terribly when he sees his hand dry, yet convinced there is blood. With immense effort he stands, and staggers to the kitchen, staring at the medicine cabinet where they keep his various medications, making it to the sink just in time to vomit at the overwhelming urge to take them all at once, he grabbed the bottle of whiskey still out and swished it around his mouth, spitting it out, before in quick succession gulping down the last of the remains, grabbing a full bottle and stumbling to the bathroom.   
  
  
Once he reached the bathroom he locked the door, removing a loose tile he pulled out a little 'ptsd kit' that he was proud of for hiding from Mycroft for this reason. He pulled out his emergency cigarettes, as well as a lighter, a sharp blade, gauze and medical tape. It took a few minutes to light the cigarette, but once he had it only took a few drags on it to get down to the filter, he lit a new one and puffed on it, as he rolled up his sleeves and tossed his pants to the side, sitting on the floor, he grabbed the blade and took a huge breath, trying to convince himself he didn't need it. All attempts vanished as another memory slammed into him, and he lost any control he had over his body as it washed over him.

  
 _"My boy, I will fuck this gay shit out of you. When I'm done you'll never even breathe in the direction of another male." Gregory screamed as his virgin hole was forcibly entered with a branch removed from a tree. He begged for mercy, shaking as it got removed, struggling as he got held down, and his closed legs got forced open, he cried out as a thicker branch was forced in, nearly passing out.  
_ _The memory changes, shifting into when he got kidnapped and holed up from an alley, staying chained in a dark basement, getting raped and used regularly as an ashtray, flinching everytime he caught the eye of his abuser. Finding the courage to escape and run away, swinging a hammer at the abusers head, sobbing into a phone to the police. Vowing when they came to become one, to protect others like him._  
  
  
Slowly he came out of it, hyperventilating on the bathroom floor, lying on his back in a pool of blood. Weakly he sat up, and mechanically started cleaning up, mopping the blood off the floor, taking a bath to wash the blood off him and out of the clothes, bandaging his arms, putting away the supplies. He walked sluggishly to the bedroom, sliding on a long sleeve top and a pair of sweatpants, with wide eyes, he grabbed his soft toy and staggered out to the living room, feeling his mental age regress, yet too tired to stop the child like actions coming out, grabbing Mycrofts blanket off his chair, inhaling the scent as he passed out on the sofa, curled under the blanket, and cuddling the toy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John cleaned up the mess of the cake and cups left over from the discussion the brothers had, looking at Sherlock who was currently thinking lying down on the couch, fingers steepled in his thinking pose. He helped himself to a slice of cake and placed a glass of water next to his detective, he found the cake a little too sweet, but otherwise surprisingly good, hours passed and he fell asleep in his chair while waiting.  
  
  
When Sherlock dove back to the present with more ideas on the killer, he smiled at the sight of John, carrying him up to his own bed, he gulped the water down and got more, grimacing at the sight of the cake, reminding himself to teasingly probe Mycroft later. He heard a cry of fear travel down from Johns room and deduced he was having a nightmare, so he grabbed his violin and played a calming tune, knowing it would carry up to him, when he settled Sherlock returned to his latest experiment, going to his own room for privacy, he pulled out the notebook, the blade and first aid kit.   
  
  
First taking notes of his current mood before hand, going so far as to describe the case that provoked the experiment. When he made the initial notes, he disinfected the arm and made new slices, larger than yesterdays one, with varying degrees of depth, he was finishing a fourth when the screams indicating Rosie was up sounded, and his hand jerked in surprise, cursing he cleaned up fast, running into the living room to look after Rosie, as it was his night to watch her, after determining she was fine, he played the violin for her, smiling softly for the first time in a while when she fell back asleep, before he escaped back to his experiment, writing the findings afterwards, including noting how it calmed down his mind so he could process better.   
  
After hiding the notebook again he went out to the living room to play the violin in a trance, at this rate they were going to have a serial killer on their hands, and he was excited.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was late when Mycroft got home. Very late. He knew something was wrong as soon as he entered the house, as he entered the kitchen he noticed the smell of hours old vomit in the sink, as well as the empty bottle of whiskey, he felt his heart sink, he knew he had one, it swelled with love when he saw Greg. A rustle made him cautiously approach the living room, where he spotted the pale face of his partner, the smell of nicotine hung around him, as well as alcohol, and, did he detect blood? He tried removing the blanket to get a closer look but he got a groan in response as well as a flinch, understanding it much have been the case, he with a few keystrokes looked into the newer information, understanding washing over him as he read what had been found in Ashley. He resisted the urge to eat the second cake he had made, instead working on trying to wake up his boyfriend, to see what the damage may be, he knew fully what his habits were.   
  
  
"Greg. Greg, could you just let me see, please?"  
  
  
A groan answered him, as well as a loosening off his grip, it was a start at least. Gently as he was able, he starting untangling Greg, frowning at the long sleeve before rolling it down, resting he head in his arm at the sight of the bandage. He lifted him and carried the sleeping DI to bed, curling around him so he felt safe, resolving to get the case solved fast. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it got a little heavy there, it shouldnt get worse than that


	3. Problems arise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a quiet chapter, no drama, oops

Greg awoke the next morning to the smell of bacon and eggs, and something else. Dragging himself out of bed, hissing in pain as his arms pulled and his bandages rubbed, feeling the scabs lift and start to bleed once more. After taking care of his morning business, he headed out to the kitchen, his stuffed dragon in one hand, a soft smile spreading across his face at the sight of his lover in the kitchen with an apron on, covering his dress shirt and trousers the most casual he normally goes. He sat at the counter, grunting his thanks as Mycroft slid over a cup of hot coffee without looking up, watching over the eggs, bacon and stack of pancakes. Without a word, simply a small frown, he dished up the bacon and eggs, flipping a stack of pancakes onto a plate and pouring in the next batch, sliding Greg's meds, including an iron vitamin to rebuild it back up, and breakfast over to him. Except for the clattering of dishes the kitchen, it was silent, causing Greg to shift in his seat and grunt as he moved the wounds once more, the concerned look he got from Mycroft was the biggest emotional response he'd gotten in a day.  
  
  
  
Mycroft finished flipping the pancakes and plating them, slathering them in syrup, something he hadn't done since The Fall. Silence sat heavily between them as they ate, Mycroft devouring his in a way that made him hungry for more as he complied, getting up and making a new batch, focused on making each individual one perfectly round. Gregory watched with wide silent eyes, seeming to shrink in on himself, waiting for the axe that hung above his head to drop, flinching when Mycroft slid a small plateful over to him, on the top one, written in syrup already running, read one word. ' _Eat.'_ He looked up at him, with a small frown, surprised he hadn't even touched his food, and he began nibbling, more playing with his food, cutting it up into small bite sized pieces, jumping when he heard his partner clear his throat, staring at his food that was looking more and more nauseating by the second. Fighting the urge to push the plate away, he instead took another bite, stilling as he saw his medication piling up, most of which had to be taken with a meal, with the tiniest of nods, he swallowed his pills with a cold coffee.   
  
  
Breakfast, or the pathetic attempt at it, was cleared up not long after, leftovers put in the fridge for later. Gregory was set up in the Library, which had a tv wheeled into it, with a pile of dvds, and a pile of boos that Mycroft put beside Gregs favourite chair, he tucked him in with his comfort blanket and a jug of juice on the table next to him, kissing his forehead softly and gently caressing his cheek, as if afraid he may shatter, frown turning to concern as he glanced towards where the bandage was hidden.   
  
  
"Okay. My office is not far from here, if you need me simply call out. I am tempted to call Doctor Watson to look after your, wounds, as well. However, I know you would object considerably. So instead I will change your bandage when lunchtime comes around, you just sit, and relax my dear, do not worry about work or your cases, our best man is on it after all."  
  
  
"Yes Myc. Thank you for your consideration, and for your tender care, I'm sorry for putting you through this. I love you my little Olaf." Greg summoned up a cheeky grin, glad he had forced the elder Holmes to watch Frozen with him, he had giggled, feeling the snowman related to his boyfriend.  
  
  
"Yes, well, some people are worth melting for." With a light blush dusting his cheeks, Mycroft beat a hasty retreat, leaving a giggling Greg behind.  
  
  
  
As soon as Mycroft was out of sight Greg tried settling down to read, hissing as once again the bandages tugged along his cuts, and he scrunched up his nose, struggling to find a good position where it wouldn't hurt. Finally he found a position, before groaning, reaching for the juice, blinking back spots of dizziness, shaking it clear and drinking from it, before shakily putting it back, leaning his head on the back of the couch, promptly passing out, paler than his books, a stark contrast to the red steadily bleeding through his bandages.  
  
  
Only a soft thump from his book falling showed any sign what happened, while beads of sweat appeared, and his breathing slowed down, along with his heart beat. He writhed under the blanket, eyes flicking weakly beneath his lids, as if watching a rapidly occurring movie. His memories flashing just under the surface, tormenting him as his blood slowly emptied more into his bandage and black long sleeve top. Muffled groans barely escaping his parted lips. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"John! John! I need to speak out loud and throw ideas at and frankly Mrs Hudson doesn't help at all."

"Well now really, young man!"  
  
  
"Yes yes, I'm sorry, but its true."  
  
  
"You could at least be gentle about it." With that Mrs Hudson bustled out, "And remember, neither John nor I are your housekeepers, seriously my dear boy, the amount of, I dare say stuff you leave around is both atrocious and dangerous to poor Rosie."  
  
  
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively in her direction, already seeing the scenes laid out again in perfect detail, walking himself around it.  
  
  
"Okay, so both have been presented as suicides. Both have a history of mental illness in at least one form, that much is clear by the amount of psychiatric medications both took. They also both used Self harm as a coping mechanism, yet however scars tell us that they were not suicidal. _How do they tell us that?_ Easy. No scars go over any veins or arteries, well, at least not deep enough for death, not until they died. Many of their scars also show the slightest hints of hesitation, almost like they were begging for someone to come stop them. _How can you see that?_ Again, simple. Those are the more shallow scars, the deeper ones are out of desperation, each speaking of rage, a moment of no rational thought whatsoever, therefore it was a hope, a grasp at an anchor they couldn't grab without help. _How does that differ from the ones begging for help?_ Well of course they were still begging for help, just a lot more desperately, after all, no matter what people say they don't really want to die, we all deep down want someone to save us. _Well then what makes these slices different?_ One must observe and see of course. They show no hesitation whatsoever, and look at the depth of the cuts between the ulnar and radius, no one could do that to themselves, no matter what state they were in. Some innate instinct would stop them.  
  
_What about the differences then?_ Oh yes there certainly are plenty of those, starting with the different types of psychiatric medications, so, they were both fighting different disorders, note I used the word disorder, not illness, yes, either word is correct technically speaking, however judging by the length of how long each prescription is, and the general chaos, suggests it is indeed a disorder. Something you of course would know all about John. There is also of course the fact our first victim did not leave a note however the second one, though it was in blood, seems an odd way to leave a note, the posing suggests that it was the victim who did indeed write it, however i would like to get an exact Time of Death from Molly, as well as a rough estimate how long that blood had been up there. We also have the methods, self harm is of course the common denominator, however both had an additional. Victim one over dosed, which is of course statistically common with woman, while victim two used a gun, counter productive really, seeing as he was already bleeding out, _or was he?_ Gun of course statistically being a popular choice among men. _Is that why you considered it? or was that convenience?_  
  
And then of course we have the fact both of them were sexually assaulted, likely before, as there is no indication from the pools of blood there was disturbance. So, maybe a sexual sadist? One who does not wish to be identified, or perhaps one that is too well recognised. He is someone insecure with his own sexuality, yet confident enough to lure two different but similar victims. _Who could do that? Who could target these two? Would find them appealing to their murderous intentions? Maybe an angel of death? One who works in Psychiatry? Feels almost too lazy._ And after all the universe is rarely so lazy, so it can't be that. I need more data, specifically Victim two's file, and ideally a third victim, _wait, thats a bit not good, isn't it John?_ John?"  
  
  
Sherlock looked up suddenly, jolting back to the present as he hears a soft coo coming from Rosie's playpen, and in a daze he stumbled over to it, reading a note that John had left pinned to it: ' _Sherlock, I am off to work and it is your turn to watch over Rosie, please, try to avoid being, well, you and talking about murder around her, i do not need her waking up with nightmares.'_ He looked down at the not-quite-a-toddler-yet-not-a-baby with a confused frown, flinching back as she giggled and reached out for his nose, it was then that he noticed the baby monitor behind her and saw the flashing light indicating it was on, and uncharacteristically cursed himself, knowing John was going to kill him when he got back. But at least for now he was off the hook, he grabbed his phone and sent out a flurry of texts to various people.  
  
  
_To Molly:_  
' **Determine the time victim number two died and analyse the blood found on the wall, see if the message was written before or after death. - SH'  
  
  
**_To DI Lestrade:  
_**'Pattern suggests there should be a third victim, judging by the rate of a victim a day. I require any knowledge the Yard may have on the second victim. -SH'  
'If convenient, even if not, if you are busy send it. -SH'  
'And anything you have in relations to the case too. I like to compare notes. -SH'  
  
**_To Mycroft:  
_**'Need files on Victim two for latest case, as how you gave me Ashley's file, pattern suggests this will happen again and a repeat of the 'serial suicides' should not happen again.'**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Greg's phone kept buzzing on the night stand beside his side of the bed. Text after text flooding in, from Donovan, asking if he was feeling any better, and that new information had come up regarding the new case. However, it went unanswered, going silent once more, neglected.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft took his time working in his office, taking his stress out in his work, and finding it very satisfying. When he found himself needing a break, he did something he knew would calm him, he went to his bedroom and started making the bed, just in time for another text to come through to Greg's phone, curious, he flipped it over and looked at the notifications on the lock screen.

  
**[3 Missed calls from Sally Donovan]  
[4 Unread messages from Sally Donovan]  
[8 Unread messages from SH]  
[Last message from SH: 'Lestrade? Are you ignoring me? I really do need those files. Especially if they did make any previous sexual assault allegations. Don't be childish and just send them. -SH']  
** _BUZZ BUZZ_  
**[New message: SH: 'If something is wrong, get over yourself before we find a new victim and this gets worse. -SH']**

With a frown, Mycroft pocketed the phone, and started remaking the bed, pulling back the covers to flatten out the bottom sheet, stopping in his tracks. Where Gregory usually lies, was a large stain of still wet blood, the size of which surprised him. He froze before bolting to the library, hitting a silent alarm button that would send an ambulance directly to his residence no questions asked. 

  
Mycroft arrived just in time to see his Gregory writhe off the couch, he dived under him and lifted his head onto his lap, pulling off Gregorys top, eyes zeroing in on the bandage, which, now that it was exposed was clearly soaked with blood, leaving it on, he elected to instead apply pressure via pressing the top on the blood, feeling sick at the sight of it. Luckily, (more like the service being paid heavy donations every time the button was pressed) the ambulance arrived and got directed by Mycrofts shouts of distress. He had found his composure, not that he had ever really lost it, and had told them exactly what had happened the night before and what he found just before, offering to donate immediately as he knew he was the correct blood type. The EMT's looked him over, and then the bloody files he (somewhat) shakily handed over, showing both of their blood was clear of all possible disease transmittable and the right type, with a nod they agreed to draw blood, but once at the hospital. With some argument, he was able to ride with them, and he watched, wide eyed, his less bloodied hand took out his phone and texted his assistant, telling her to tell both Sherlock and John of the situation and send a car if they request to see him.

  
He felt like he wasn't breathing as he watched them attempt to attach an IV to him, unable to find any veins, despite experience, with an impatient scoff he show'd them an up-to-date certificate and took over, for once thanking his experience with his drug addict of a brother, whose veins were frequently impossible to find, and with practiced ease, managed to find and slip it into a vein they had attempted, and written off, sitting back down after. It was after that it really hit him. As he watched Gregory's condition worsen in the race against time. His own diaphragm froze, unable to take in oxygen, panic and adrenaline mixed with shock coursing through his veins. The only thought running through his head was, _What if he doesn't make it? He has to, no, no, Mycroft logic, thats what you need... oh no, not my Gregory..._ Distantly, he was aware of a medic telling him to breathe. On some level he was aware of the fact no oxygen was reaching his lungs, but he couldn't for the life of him work out how to do so. All he could hear was his heart racing, attempting to leap over to Greg. He noticed with detached thoughts just how much it hurt, not breathing. He watched from afar as the bandages were peeled off, with blood sluggishly pouring out, _He must not have much blood left in his body if the flow is sluggish, what if i was too late?_

  
They arrived at the Hospital, and Gregory was immediately rushed to a bed in resus. It took a great deal of effort for Mycroft to stand and follow them, ignoring the darkness creeping into his vision, still too shocked to breathe. He stood on the top step of the Ambulance, and swayed, once, twice, and on the third sway fell onto the cruel concrete below, giving into the darkness and thankfully passing out.


	4. Reversed roles

John frowned at Anthea, or whatever she called herself currently, "So, what you're telling me is, Greg is possibly bleeding to death from a maybe self inflicted wound, but exact specifics can not be told, only that he is on his way to St Barts and would I like to go see him?" He folded his arms in front of him in disbelief, before a sigh escaped him and he nodded.

He followed her into the car, only half surprised to see Sherlock in the car, automatically assuming that Rosie was now with Mrs Hudson. The ride to the hospital was tense and silent, more so as Anthea's constant typing became more frantic, she excused herself to the front part with the driver and made a phone call, leaving Sherlock and John sitting next to each other. Of its own accord, John's leg started bouncing, and Sherlock settled his hand on it, softly rubbing.  
  
  
"Relax John. The inspector will pull through this, though, I do wonder if it is linked with this case? Maybe he's on the same sort of medications as them, do you think he'd let me ask him?"  
  
  
A sharp look answered him, and he shrank down. Together they arrived at A&E and left the car, which parked in a spot reserved for the most esteemed guests. They sat in the waiting room while Anthea got them the necessary room number, just in time for, "Family of Gregory Lestrade?"

John took the lead, spinning a lie of him being his half brother, unaware of Anthea pulling Sherlock to the side. Alone, John entered the room, stopping at the sight of Greg, lying in bed, a fresh bandage wrapped around his arm, and a blood transfusion happening in the other. Colour slowly returning to his face, John turned to the doctor as he started to explain that it was very lucky Mycroft found Gregory when he did, and even luckier the ambulance got there so fast, any longer and it was likely he wouldn't be here. He also explained because the nature of the wound was self inflicted, they were going to hold him on a 72 hour psychiatric hold when he woke up, as they still believed him to be a danger to himself. With a nod of understanding, the doctor left, and John sat beside the bed, hand only resting on Gregs unbandaged arm, sighing.

  
"Greg, mate. You are truly an idiot, what the hell could have made you do this?" He paused, recalling the other day at the crime scene, and he remembered the look in the Detective Inspectors eyes. "Oh Greg, this cases is close to you, isn't it? You moron, you shouldn't have taken it..."

  
John quietened at that, listening to the steady sound of the heart monitor. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock entered the room, to see his brother rapidly disrobing and changing back into a new suit, his bloodied one in a bag behind him. A startled sound alerted Mycroft to his brother, and whirled around, both fear and shame flickered across his face, chased by anger, before settling on his neutral face, watching the show upon Sherlock's face, as fear, relief, concern, confusion and anger dance across his. Finally the two stared at each other, Mycroft dressed in just his boxers and an open shirt, heart monitor electrodes still littering his chest, as well as some dried blood on his stomach and covering his arms and hands, along with some smeared across his face, which was also littered with various scrapes and forming bruises. Realising Sherlock was staring, Mycroft gave a thin tight-lipped smile and tried maintaining his dignity, straightening up, shaking hands grabbing wipes and trying to scrub off the blood, which he realised was also on his legs.   
  
  
"You are staring brother mine. I was under the impression you found my body, its shape, revolting. You certainly reminded me many times over the years how big I am."

  
"Mycroft... I am ... sorry for that. And for Gav- Gregory's hospitalisation..."

  
With barely veiled horror, he was staring at scars littering his brothers thighs, most sticking out of the boxers, he tore his eyes away and moved forward, just in time to catch Mycroft's limp body, heaving him back up onto the bed, slipping the oxygen mask that Mycroft had carelessly tossed aside as his breathing hitched up into panicked hyperventilating, eyes wide, and his usual icy mask shattered, as he stared in sheer panic at his younger brother, clasping at his hand. The monitors picked up on the erratic breathing and heart rate and screamed their displeasure, private nurses (only the best for the British Government after all) raced in, and stopped at a moment they had never encountered with their worst patient, he was accepting help, even more so, the help of his brother, their second worse patient (some would argue it was the other way round.) Sherlock held his brother by the shoulders, eyes staring into eyes, as they together worked on slowing Mycroft's breathing, once the monitors had calmed, Sherlock snapped his fingers and pointed to a nurse without looking at her.

  
"You. Bring me a cloth, soft if you can, he likes soft textures after a panic attack. And a bowl of water, warm if you can. Now. The rest of you clear out. He's fine."

  
There was a moments hesitation, the nurse Sherlock address scarpered out, the rest remained, curiosity getting the better of them. Until Sherlock whirled around, gathering information and putting on his deduction face, drawing breath to speak, and they all rapidly bolted, nearly running over the one who returned and left with a curtsy. Sherlock smirked after them all and with a bow of his head, shut the door.

  
"Right then dear brother. Lets get you cleaned up." Mycroft sat up, starting to remove the mask to protest, sliding a somewhat broken mask over the panic, before Sherlock pushed him back down and replaced the mask, after peeling off the top, "No, stay down, it is my turn to look after you. You are in no state to look after yourself, consider it a thank you for all the times you cared after me. And don't tell me 'caring is not an advantage,' We are siblings, Holmes, we must stick together, we two are all the other has. John and Gav-Greg aside of course."

  
As he spoke, he dipped the cloth into the lukewarm water and gently cleaned off the blood off his brother, taking care to clean off every spot, moving the bowl of now red water to the sink, and tipping it out, helping him put the gown back on and buttoning it up for him, smiling when he saw it was designed to look like a suit. Hanging the umbrella close to them both, he took a seat beside his brother and held his hand.

  
"Now listen to me brother dear. He will be fine, you found him in time, and I know that excellent assistant of your's got the best doctors for him, and if you would like I could get Molly Hooper to watch over him too, and of course John, both of whom who I trust dearly. So lets get you calmed down. You haven't had panic attacks in some time, definitely not one's that caused you to pass out, so just wait for them to clear you. Understand?"

  
Mycroft nodded. Sighing and taking deep breaths, his mask crumpling as he realised it truly was just the two of them in the room, squeezing his hand every so often.

  
"Do you feel up to talking?"

  
Head shake.

  
"Would you like me to talk?"

  
Nod.  
  
"Okay, do you have any preferences?"

Head shake.

  
"Okay, would you like me to read to you later?"

  
Nod.  
  
  
"Would you like me to stay until you are cleared and Greg is discharged?"

  
Nod.

  
"Okay dear Brother, I can do that for you. Okay, lets see, oh, I know where to start, that Nurse who fetched me that water, this is only the second time of her ever dealing with us, she's young still, and almost as naive as Molly was when she first saw me. Easily scared though, so of course she must be very silent and submissive to all around her, she likely gets the worst jobs here, something she is used to despite her short time on Earth... "

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A week later found Gregory in his first appointment with a new psychiatrist, while Mycroft waited for him at home, baking up a storm, making full use of their 4 separate ovens. Each was a different flavour. He had a zesty lemon flavoured one in an oval tin with a few minutes remaining, an apple and cinnamon cooling on a rack, a chocolate and orange cake just put in and was finishing mixing up a berry cake with a mix of various berries. After pouring in the mix into a new tin and popping it into the oven, he gave the bowl a test lick with his finger, before putting the mixing bowls into the sink and running water over them, before putting the majority of the ingredients away except for those that'd be used as decoration, checking his pantry to see he had everything, despite knowing some of his supplies were low, and he made a mental list as he washed the bowls and dried them, just as he was finishing up his phone went off, alerting him to a new text.

**Sir, another body has been found, alerting everyone still involved now, does that include your brother and his partner?**

He frowned. It took the killer this long to kill again? Early pattern had suggested this killer had severe blood lust with a huge sadistic streak, requiring a kill a day to be satisfied, what took them so long? Realising he had spent several minutes standing there thinking he sent a reply.

  
**Yes. Keep me updated on the scene, if anything has changed from the previous two. MH.**

**  
Yes Sir.  
  
  
** The timer for his last cake went off and he set it on a final cooling rack, covering each one up, before heading out, alerting his driver on where to take him, holding his umbrella tightly. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John's phone rang.

  
"Hello?"

  
"Watson, its Donovan here, we just got a new body, the killer if you are sure its that struck again, I've sent an officer to pick you and the freak up to see the new body."

  
"Don't call hi-"

  
"Look, I wouldn't even let you near the scene if it weren't on orders from higher up. So suck it up, and tell the damn _freak_ to get ready."

_Click._  
  
John scowled at the disconnected call, before throwing his phone at the wall, smiling as he heard a satisfying crack.

"Jooooooohn? What was thattt?"

He cursed under his breath. He now had a new Crime scene for the case, Sally Donovan as the leading detective, a now likely broken phone, and to top it off, a sick Sherlock from the amount of time he spent in the hospital visiting Greg and Mycroft. Picking up the phone and shoving it in his pocket, he stalked towards the consulting detectives room and threw open the door, stopping at the pitiful sight. Sherlock was hunched under his sheet with just his face poking out, his eyes and nose were a bright red and he squinted up at John, tissues littered the floor. As John stood there, Sherlock brought out a tissue bunch and with a mighty **_ACHOOOO_** sneezed into them, before groaning and coughing, which revealed he was wearing just a loose pair of boxers under the sheet, covered in a sheen of sweat, with a sigh, John fetched the thermometer he kept up in his room, and took Sherlock's temperature. Another sigh escaped him when he saw how high it was and he grabbed out his phone to take a photo of proof of the miserable detective, cursing and throwing the broken phone after fetching out the sim card, searching for one of Sherlock's spare phones.

  
"Sally called. Another body has been found, she's sent an officer to come pick us up. Yes, she, Lestrade was taken off, remember? at Mycroft's insistence. Unfortunately, you will not be joining me as she would not appreciate you contaminating the crime scene with, that. So I will go in your stead- oh shut up, I know what to look for, I've seen you going through everything enough times and heard you talking to my daughter, who Molly is currently looking after until you are better. So mister, you will shut up and lie there and focus on getting well, and eat the soup Mrs Hudson will bring you, and take the medicine, and-"  
  


"Johnnnnn, I am quite capable of looking after myselfffff." Sherlock whined, fighting to sit up with a groan, holding his now throbbing head, not protesting when John pushed him back down.

  
"No you are not. You eat sporadically, there are times you smoke like a chimney, you do dangerous things when bored, you often forget even simple things."

  
"Unnecessary things. You don't understand, I must keep my mind-"

"Fresh, yes I know, I know. Because you are a genius who gets bored." Kissing him on the forehead. "And you dont eat on a case because it 'slows you down' despite how many times I have tried convincing you that it is not possible. But you don't let your body rest when you are sick, and you know you need to, I know you do, because you are smart. So, shut up, lie down, and rest. And for heavens sakes don't sulk, I'll check on you when I return." 

  
He took a photo on the phone he found of the sickly pile of sheets and bones, and shut the door, just in time to hear a **THUD** of the box of tissues being hurled at the door, followed by a, "I don't sulk!" in an extremely pouty voice.

  
John rolled his eyes and muttered darkly to himself, texting the photo through to Donovan.

  
**It's going to be just me, Sherlock is sick. He picked something up while visiting your boss - John.**

  
He grinned smugly to himself as he went down to the waiting car, telling the officer it was just him. He was proud of himself for that, he knew that she hadn't visited Lestrade once when he was in the hospital, he knew she was celebrating to herself about the news, but sensed she'd object to it being just him, awaiting a reply.

  
**Mycroft. Sherlock is sick and I have to go to the new scene by myself, could you maybe pop in while I'm gone just to check him? I'm sure you are aware of how stubborn he gets when ill. Thank you.**

  
The Holmes' they'd be the death of John, he swears. He knew Mycroft would not respond but would do as requested, if for no other reason than to check to see if Sherlock was truly sick. Speaking of, he sent a photo of him to Greg, in hopes of getting a laugh from his friend, he'd just sent it when a reply came through that got him scowling again. 

  
**Are you sure you are up to the task? There is a reason we use the freak, whether I like him or not. He is well, genius, and he's now official, you're not.**

  
Clenching his teeth he angrily scrolled through his contacts and hit call.

  
"Doctor Watson, and what do I owe this, unexpected, pleasure?"

  
"I would have thought that as His partner, you would have made me official too Mycroft. Sally Donovan seems to think I am completely incompetent by myself, and is unsure I am up to the task."

  
"As My brother has constantly told me, you like telling people you are a captain, so use that as your officiality, and remind Ms Donovan that the only reason she is in charge of the case is because Detective Inspector Lestrade is indisposed and you have express permission from the higher up in charge of the Yard, superintendent included to be there. If that does not work, then simply inform me and I shall make arrangements. Good day Doctor."

  
Once again, John found himself being hung up on, just in time for him to pull up to the crime, taking a moment to find his, 'Captain persona' as Sherlock loved calling it, he strode out of the car towards Sally, the officer who drove him chuckled, and rushed after him, he wanted to see how that would go on. 

  
There was something about John that changed when he threw around his reminder that he was once Captain of 5th Northumberland. He grew taller and more confident, and according to Sherlock in private, the orders he threw around were 'breathtaking', the very air around him changed, commanding respect.

  
As such, as he marched towards Sally, she knew she had said the wrong thing, and she opened her mouth to apologise, but it was far too late, Captain Watson was out now, and he didn't take nonsense from anyone.

  
"Sergeant Donovan. I have no need for official status as a detective to prove that I am intelligent. Last I checked, the fact that I am a doctor who served as Captain of 5th Northumberland in Afghanistan, and the partner of Sherlock Holmes, and as I know how to learn and not just belittle people who I do not understand by calling them 'Freak,' I do believe that makes me more than qualified to look upon this scene and make deductions to assess what happened at this scene."

  
She opened her mouth once more, for what reason was anyone's guess, regardless, John didn't give her the chance to get a syllable out, to the joy of the few officers watching, and John's Driver who was discretely filming the entire thing, under order of one Mycroft Holmes, who had used his power to get eyes within the station. 

  
"I should not need to remind you that you are only in charge of this case due to circumstances that have caused Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade to be unable to investigate this case any further, and you are only in said position of leading officer because of express permission from the utmost highest up, whose name is above your paygrade, but certainly not above mine. Do I make myself clear? Never assume I am not up to the task of investigating a scene because I am not Sherlock Holmes. And certainly _never_ suggest that I am too incompetent for such a thing. Am I understood?"

  
The last of his words echoed across the car park. Silence following them, before a round of applause from the officers watching. Sally nodded, stirring something more in Captain Watson.

  
"I want a verbal answer, and that is an order Sergeant."

  
"Yes you are understood, Captain."

  
"Right, lead me to the victim then."

  
Sally gathered up what little dignity she had left and lead John up to the room where the body was. He followed her into the room and took a second to centre himself, the stench of blood was stronger at this crime scene than the previous one, and it wasn't hard to see why. There was limited dry patches where the blood hadn't reached, and the source of the blood was clear to see to all who were in the room. Along with the butchering of the arms, the neck had also been sliced all around, and the legs along the femoral artery had also been butchered. Standing on little benches strategically placed over the blood, John got closer, and saw efforts to cut organs, he suspected the heart, out of the chest cavity. With a gloved hand, he shifted the bra strap to look closer at a scar he'd seen poking out, closing his eyes when it confirmed it was self inflicted, and he scanned along the rest of the body, nodding when he confirmed suspicions. He scanned the room for any obvious notes before striding out, purposely bumping into Donovan as he did so, as he walked into the kitchen first, his smirk looking very Sherlock when he saw a row of various psychiatric medications, reading over each of them before noting the doctors who prescribed them. On a hunch he whirled back and walked first to the bathroom and looked through cabinets and then the bedroom, ignoring the line of people behind him. 

  
With the agility of Sherlock and the haste of a dog on a trail he looked around each spot, scanning before spotting a phone buried in the sheets, and he dove at it, smiling triumphantly when it wasn't even locked. He took an offered pair of new gloves and scanned through it, looking at past google searches, nodding to himself, looking through a few more things before putting it into an evidence bag offered, removing his gloves and strolling back to the initial crime scene.

  
"Well? What have you got?"

  
"Well we are definitely looking at a serial killer. Judging by the amount of blood that keeps growing, someone who has an obsession with blood, a hemophiliac to give it the proper terminology. He will keep killing and cutting and slicing until he is caught. There will be a note somewhere, just like last time, as he does want each kill to seem like a suicide. And just like last time there will be evidence of rape on her. The amount of psychiatric medications are likely how he targets them, there is a common denominator there, he is a middle man somewhere in the process. The fact that he picks self-harmers is on purpose. It helps with the illusion it is a suicide, rather than a murder, and they are also more vulnerable than any other possible victims. Anything else? Or may I leave?"

  
She nods, turning her lips to one side to think it over, moving to one side as John breezed past her.

  
He strolled back towards 221b Baker street, shedding his Captain attitude, and sighing as Mycroft's car pulled up along side him and he popped in with him.


	5. Things escalate

A single text alert rang across the otherwise silent room. An answering groan came after it, along with a sniff at an attempt to clear a heavily congested nose, shortly after a tuft of scruffy hair as Sherlock poked his head out from his cocoon, blearily staring at his phone on top of his dresser. He untangled his legs and stood, grabbing his phone and sitting back down heavily on his bed, groaning as a wave of dizziness hit him, once it passed he unlocked his phone and opened the new message from his brother. It was a video link, he opened it and hit play, the sound of his Captain Watson echoed throughout the room, putting a smile on his face and helping him feel better, pride swelled in his chest at the sight of him, sending a shiver not relating to his fever echoing down his spine. He didn't bother with a response back, there was no need, instead he shed his sheet completely and focused on standing, leaning heavily against the wall and letting out a second groan, _maybe I'm sicker than I thought._

  
With effort he made it down to the bathroom, shivering as the fever alternated between sending waves of heat and chills across his body, by the time he'd shut the bathroom door he'd worked up a whole new layer of sweat. He started filling the bathtub with cool water, and while he waited, he took his temperature, automatically writing it down on the notebook he kept in the bathroom, peeling off his boxers, grabbing a fresh flannel and sliding into the now full bathtub, turning off the tap and sighing at the coolness. Removing the bandage he slid the healing scabs into the water and gently washed them off, smiling in satisfaction as no bleeding occurred. Wetting the flannel he places it on his face, letting out a sigh of relief as he soaks in the water.

  
He lays there for several minutes, feeling the water slowly heat up as it leeches out his fever, before a sudden harsh wave of nausea hits him, and he bolts upright, clutching his suddenly aching head, as he leans over the side of the tub and brings up the soup Mrs Hudson had been nice enough to feed to him, groaning as he also sees his half digested medication. Slowly lying back down, he closed his eyes for a second, rubbing at where he can feel congestion settling in his lungs, before hoarsely calling out, "Mrs Hudson!"

  
Calling to her created a whole new bunch of problems as he promptly had a coughing fit which appeared so suddenly he didn't have a chance to brace himself against the end of the bath. As the coughing got harsher he slid further down, each cough bringing a new wave of water towards him, until the force of the coughs got him choking on water as he fought to sit up. However the coughing and flu had left him weaker than usual, with a final spluttering cough he choked and sunk below the water, eyes half open, the splashing barely calming when with a crash the door was forced open, and Mycroft burst in, lifting his younger brothers body out of the tub and onto the floor, tutting at the vomit as he started compression's immediately, and was rewarded with a stream of water flowing out of Sherlock's mouth, helping him roll on his side as he kept coughing. 

  
Anthea showed Mycroft the list of Sherlock's temperature and symptoms throughout the days and he briefly bit his lip, before remembering he was Mycroft Holmes, and he doesn't worry, much, unless it was his brother, his younger brother, who was currently coughing on his lap, and had almost drowned in the bath if he hadn't gotten there in time. His brother, whose temperature was starting to reach needing doctor levels, and, was apparently falling back to some old habits... who was only sick because Mycroft couldn't even keep a proper eye on his partner, his baby brother, who couldn't keep down soup, or medicine, his younger brother who looked after him last week. 

  
He was pulled out of his thoughts when he felt Sherlock retch against him, and he quickly dragged him over to the toilet and lifted the seat, rubbing his back as he kept retching, bringing up some more water as well as some of the mucus that was coating his lungs, Mycroft held his shaking body upright, looking at Anthea when he coughed again hard, and he moved his spare hand to rub his chest as well. With a mighty cough and retch combo, Sherlock managed to bring up a blood clot, and at the same time his nose started bleeding, grabbing offered tissues he stemmed the bleeding and pinched the nose shut, hugging the exhausted body to his chest. Relieved he could feel his brother breathing as he rested, he looked at the screen Anthea showed him, which simply said ' _An ambulance has been sent for Sir.'_ Nodding he brushed back the curls stuck to his forehead, wordlessly asking for the thermometer, and taking his temperature, frowning when he sees its gone up again, taking the offered flannel and placing it on his forehead, removing the tissues and sighing when the bleeding stopped. Thinking ahead, Anthea grabbed a clean pair of boxers and helped Mycroft pull them onto the limp man with practise, it wasn't the first time the two had found him like this, just in time for Mrs Hudson to lead the Paramedics into the bathroom.

  
Mycroft stood and composed himself, his brother already half in his arms. "Patient is male, Name Sherlock Holmes, he has been sick for the past few days, he was found starting to drown in the tub, compression's were given, in the last half an hour he has vomited twice, the second time resulted in him coughing up a blood clot and have a bleeding nose which has stopped now, his fever has risen over the past half hour as well," he paused, handing over the notebook of fever and symptoms. "The clot and nose bleed is what led to the call. I am Mycroft Holmes, and the young woman beside you is Anthea."

  
Mycroft inwardly smiled at the reaction of his and his brothers name, and with a few base tests, he carried Sherlock down to the waiting stretcher, just in time for another coughing fit to occur, and a wheeze was heard when it was over, a frown adorned his face as he watched them slide a oxygen mask over his face, and he was given an iv with saline to start. Before he could enter the ambulance with them, Anthea stopped him and handed over one of his anxiety medications with a bottle of water and a frown that said he wouldn't get out of it, with a resigned sigh, he took it, and rode to the hospital, leaving Anthea and the car behind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John waited, rather impatiently in the aptly named waiting room at Greg's therapist's office, his leg bouncing with a mind of its own, bored out of his mind as he got a taste of the boredom Sherlock must feel daily. Just for something to do, he re-watches the video of Captain Watson scolding, or rather, lecturing Sally Donovan, fascinated by how in charge he feels, a grin breaking out as he hears the echoes of Mycroft's chuckle when he showed the footage. His head shot up when footsteps sounded softly on the carpet, and he offered a small smile to Greg, who hunched his way into the room, looking much smaller than he usually did, in a hoodie 3 times too big for him and sweatpants, his face showing just how shattered he was as he shuffled his way over to John, who actually felt taller than him for once. John didn't even have a chance to offer a greeting when Greg leaned into his chest, shoulders shaking from pent-up emotion, and as he hugged him, John realised just how much this case had shaken the inspector, and they stood in silence for a few minutes, the shorter man simply offering comfort.

  
Eventually Greg calmed and stood upright, pulling out a pack of tissues and blowing his nose and offering a watery smile.

  
"So, Captain Watson of, what was it, 5th Northumberland? Where are you taking me?"

  
"Oh God, so you did see it... Well, I was thinking maybe you'd like a coffee, get some caffeine in you, maybe a meal, and then maybe we just walk around? I could show you a sick Sherlock if you wanted? He's almost tolerable when he's sick, more stubborn, but tolerable."

  
"Sherlock Holmes, tolerable? Now that I have to see, but yes, decent coffee sounds heavenly, maybe after we visit your sick Holmes, we could go back and taste some of my Holmes art." His smile grows a bit, a spark appearing in his eye and his whole demeanour changed slightly. "Now, tell me about the case. Any new developments? Has the-"

  
"Nope. I'm not telling you anything. Mycroft's orders, I'd rather not know how Mycroft would punish me if he knew I told you. He's too protective of his loved ones." John had paled at the questions, before regaining himself, playfully nudging Greg with his shoulder and holding the door open as they left, in pursuit of a nearby cafe.

  
He got a pout in return as well as puppy eyes, laughing and shaking his head at the detective, as they both blatantly ignored the black sedan following them. They joked and laughed the whole way to the cafe, John secretly pleased with himself getting Greg to brighten up so easily. That was, until they entered the Cafe, which was too crowded for Greg's liking, and instead fell silent, hunching into John instead. With a nod, he changed plans, ordered food and coffee for them both to go, and once it was ready they collected it and left.

  
The further they got from the cafe and crowds, the more Greg loosened back up, though he kept looking around everywhere, as if expecting something to happen, or someone to pop up. They kept walking until John found a nice secluded place for them to sit down and have their coffee and eat their pastries, John groaned and muttered under his breath when he spotted the car again.

  
"I'm going to have words with your Mycroft about following us with his cars. Its not necessary."

  
Greg merely chuckled, and finished off his own coffee and pastry, tossing the rubbish into the bin before curling up on the bench and cuddling into John again, putting his hood up and sighing as he inhaled John's calming scent.

  
"You know that when Mycroft finds out about this, he is going to kill me and my body will never be found, but before that, 20 bucks says the next 10 people who walk past us assume we're a couple."

  
"You're on. He won't do that, he knows that you're my best mate, Sherlock doesn't count, he's a pain in my ass sometimes, no offence."

  
"None taken, he's a pain in my ass too." John paused, before giggling at the double meaning, giggling more at Greg's look of horror and disgust. "Speaking of, how about I introduce you to sick Sherlock?"

  
Greg nods, and they stand and walk to 221b Baker Street together.

  
John opens the door and goes in first, turning to see Greg's face at the silence, smirking and continuing, jogging to his and Sherlock's room, not noticing the open bathroom door. He skidded at the sight of just the sheet on the floor, and back tracked to the bathroom door which he just registered was opened, he saw the puddle of drying vomit, and not yet dried up water, grabbing some paper towels, he started mopping up the vomit, freezing when he saw the blood in the toilet, his mind racing with possibilities, while simultaneously beating himself up for leaving Sherlock when he was sick. 

  
Greg sat on the couch while he waited, before getting back up and cleaning some of the mess, needing to do something, only looking up when John wandered back in with a strange look on his face, a mix of worry, suppressed rage and confusion.

  
"John?"

  
"Sherlock isn't here, but, there are signs he got sicker."

  
An eyebrow raised while he waited for John to continue, five minutes passed before he realised the doctor needed prompting.

  
"Sicker how?"

  
"Vomit on bathroom floor, with water. And a blood clot in the toilet with evidence of a bleeding nose as well..."

  
John fell into silence, no amount of prompting getting him to continue, as he got a look in his eye that Greg associated with Sherlock, one that said he was running through facts, patiently Greg sat back and waited. He'd just made them both a tea when Mrs Hudson stumbled upon them.

  
"Oh John, I thought I heard you. Sherlock was taken to hospital, in an ambulance, I saw his brother carry him onto the stretcher..."

  
With a fire burning in his eyes, John got up and stormed down the stairs, Greg quickly stood and followed after him, getting in the car first, and flinching when John slammed the door, telling Mycroft's driver in a clipped tone to drive to the hospital. Greg slid to the furthermost from John, hunching in on himself, breathing shallowly as he fights the flashbacks, _his last boyfriend, whose anger could make him walk on eggshells, who would slam glass doors hard enough to shatter every glass pane, who slammed a car door on his hand, crushing bones, lying to Donovan when she visited him in hospital, lying, telling her nothing was wrong. The feeling of a glass bottle shatter against his shoulder blade, the glass pierce him, the fight at the grocery store, the raised voice, that led to a can being thrown at his head, the trolley running over him, Sally leaning over him, realising she witnessed the whole thing, her helping with the case-_ a hand came down on on his shoulder and he flinched jumping hard. His breath came faster, as his eyes widened _Oh no, not now, please not now,_ he bunched his hoodie up in his hands as his chest felt tighter and the panic rose in torrential waves. He was aware he was hyperventilating now, and he looked at what he realised was John's face, who looked guilty rather than angry, and through a buzz he could vaguely hear what he was saying.

  
"Greg. Gregory. Mate. Lestrade. Can you hear me?"

  
Nod.

  
"Okay, great, i want you to breath with me, okay? Breath properly for me. Can you do that?"  
  
  


Nod.

  
With his own nod, John started taking deep exaggerated breathing, using his hand to show more. His other hand imitating the breathing, with some effort and concentration, and much much hyperventilating, Greg was able to follow along, and he was able to calm, as he did he noticed Johns firm grasp on his wrist to check his pulse, he also realised they'd been at the hospital for sometime. The driver, noticing the hyperventilating was over, handed a handkerchief back, and John accepted it, wiping the tears off his face, before hugging him, the two sitting like that for a while, before Gregory nodded and pulled back, opening the door and sliding out, bracing himself against the car as a wave of dizziness slid over him, and if John noticed him leaning on him he said nothing.

  
Together the two walked into the Hospital and straight to the room that was always booked for the Holmes brothers, Gregory entering first, neither of them showing surprise at Mycroft or Anthea, Greg headed straight for the unconscious Sherlock, focused on him. John meanwhile stalked toward the Elder Holmes and grabbed him by the jacket, dragging him out into the waiting room and down to an empty corridor, where he shoved him away, giving the man just enough time to adjust his suit before he started.

  
"Why the ever loving _fuck_ did I have to find out Sherlock was in hospital, from Mrs Hudson? Why didn't you at least text me? I would have thought after fucking Sherrinford that you'd at least trust me more? Given the fucking circumstances we found us in? Instead, I have to find from my landlady where Sherlock was, information that you kept away from me, which caused me to get angry in front of your partner which then led to me accidentally triggering him. Did you think any of that would happen?" John paused, looking Mycroft up and down, giving the man the uneasy feeling of being deduced himself, feeling his walls being stripped down as he stared the doctor down. "No, I can see you didn't. In fact, you didn't even expect us to be back that early. The only reason we even were back early was because I wanted Greg to see a sick Sherlock, show him a new side to him, see if it helped cheer him up, because the man is a wreck, your man is a wreck, you should look after him more. Yes I know I'm one to talk, seeing as Sherlock is lying in a bed, when I should have seen the signs, known he was getting worse, as a doctor i should have recognised the worsening symptoms."

  
John stood panting from his outburst, turning away from the shaken man, running his hand through his hair, turning and punching the concrete wall next to Mycroft as his mess of thoughts lingered to the Sherrinford events once again, noticing the flinch beside him, as he does it again and again and he can feel pulling tingles. His final punch changed his surroundings, and he whipped around with terrifying speed, he rapidly paled as he recognised where he was, he saw the bed Eurus had him on, and then he was in it, strapped in, and looking up at three separate screens on the ceiling. On one was Sherlock, desperately following clues to find both him and Mycroft, on the second was Mycroft, in a similar position to John, and the third had John himself. John watched in horror, as Eurus put a jar with rats on her brothers stomach and heated the bottom of it, flicking a button and a camera on one of the rats blinked on, it filling half the screen, she left the room where her brothers panicked words followed her, entering instead Johns room. 

  
A sick feeling flooded his body as she approached him, scalpel in hand. 

  
"I always wanted to see what it would look like, and now I can."

  
John shuddered and fought his restraints at the sound of her detached voice. She traced her knife along the lines where autopsy incisions are made, making them almost as deep, if not as deep, John wasn't sure, he was too busy biting his lip, struggling not to scream, she watched the blood bead up with a hint of interest, and cut extra, before peeling one half back. John couldn't hold back, he screamed loudly, enough for Sherlock to somehow hear him.

  
"Eurus? Did I hear a scream?"

  
"No Sherlock, you just keep playing my game."

  
John watched the screens, gagging, as Eurus moved closer to see his stomach contracting as he did so, watching his blood vessels, before poking his spleen with the scalpel, causing it to burst, with another scream of his. 

  
"How does it feel Doctor Watson?"

  
_"Doctor Watson! John! Damn it come back Doctor!"_

  
John felt a slap across his face and a shaking, and with a blink he saw Mycroft crouched before him, paler than before, he was aware he was hyperventilating, and muttering loudly, about what he'd just remembered, he doubled over and vomited on the floor, as phantom pain flooded through him, shooting along the scars. He knelt on his hands and knees, heaving and coughing, eventually accepting Mycroft's help up, and they moved away from it, Mycroft waiting till John was calmer, and had no signs of another flashback.

  
"You are right John, my apologies. I should indeed have informed you of Sherlock's condition, I can see how you seeing he was gone and the state of the bathroom would have caused you to panic. You are also right about how especially after, after Sherrinford," Mycroft paused, paling further, absently rubbing his own scars, "I do trust you after that event. How could I not? If not for you, things may have gone worse for me... However this is not the time for additional thank you's in that regard. You not seeing my brother's worsening condition is not on you. I thank you for looking after both him and my Gregory, I know he is a wreck, but, I, I don't know how to help him..."

  
John cast his eye over the man, who seemed to have shrunk since witnessing John's flashback, and hefted a heavy sigh.

  
"You don't need to thank me for either of those Mycroft, I'd do both again in a heartbeat. As for Greg, all he needs is comfort, and reassurance you are there for him, hugs and all. However, that won't happen if you don't take care of yourself. So, for tonight Greg will stay with me at Baker street, and you look after yourself, okay? Doctor's orders. Have Anthea on stand by if necessary, or your other staff, and just, don't fight too hard on any flashbacks or panic attacks, that won't help either of you if you are carrying so much stress it leaks into your relationship."

  
Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes, reopening and looking over John properly, _still not recovered from flashback, however his must save everyone before himself is in effect, he'd know immediately if I didn't do as told to do, him helping us all is all that is keeping him together. Hasn't looked after himself for at least 4 months, maybe longer, at least since the East Wind struck, he's reaching the end of his tether, he needs to look after himself as well, however his past indicates he won't, he'll need help accepting he himself requires help, perhaps an intervention of sorts, provided this case wraps up fast, then would be best to approach him._

  
"Very well, I shall do that, now, lets visit my brother."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft entered his house, sighing as he did so, he'd just dropped off Gregory and Doctor Watson at home and then finally gathered the groceries he had wanted to hours before hand. He stripped off his clothes and put them into his washing machine along with his similar suits and turned them on, then headed to the shower to wash the tension off his shoulders, turning it on as hot as he can handle and sighing at the pressure. His hands ran over his scars inflicted by his sister, the gnawing hole where the rats had eaten through to his organs, the plus shaped incision where she opened his chest, he could still remember her words, " _Oh look, Mycie does have a heart, and it even works, how will it work with a shock?"_ She had been about to administer a near fatal shock to his heart when John Watson had gained her attention, the patch from where she'd gotten skin to graft over his hole so she could slice along his spine, staring down at the screens in the floor, his knees almost buckled as he remembered the sound of the saw she was about to use to gain access to his brain. He finished in the shower and darted out, putting on a pair of Gregory's sweatpants and hoodies, inhaling the scent, and going back out to the kitchen, uncovering the cakes.

  
He stood for five minutes, not quite seeing them, before in an uncharacteristic move, he smashed them in a fit of rage, no cake was spared. By the time he was finished, he was panting, standing over the crumbs, a wave of emotion shook him, and he burst into tears, picking the crumbs up and eating them, before brushing them into a bin, and pulling out a cake he'd made two days ago, slicing a thick slice, covering it in cream and eating it in the living room, taking the cake with him. Staring into nothing, he made quick work of the first slice, then the second, and the third, until the cake was gone, with rising horror, he realised what he'd done. He stood and quickly washed the dishes with shame, heading to his exercise room and setting the equipment on high, working out to work the cake off, turning up the treadmill more to try, futilely, out run his thoughts, he detested when his own thoughts got to him, and he knew from experience that his Mind Palace would do the opposite of help, instead escalating everything.

  
An hour later, he was panting and taking a break from his intense work out when he got a new message. 

  
**Sir, yet another murder has been done, would you like me to alert Doctor Watson?**

**  
No thank you, Doctor Watson is looking after Gregory, and getting some needed rest, I shall look myself. Don't tell Sergeant Donovan, I shall inform her when I get there. -MH**

  
Mycroft smiled, he had something to do, finally, a distraction. He donned his finest suit, grabbed his umbrella and headed to his car, directing his driver to the address.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Greg woke to the sound of a scream. Well, woke isn't the right word, that would imply he had fallen asleep, he hadn't. He couldn't. He refused. Too scared of what sleep may bring him, but he had found himself dozing, not quite asleep, and not quite awake, which is what alerted him to the scream. Still, it took him a while to orientate himself, and realise where he was. It took another pain filled, terrified, no, terrified doesn't cover it, petrifying scream to snap him into action and bolt down the stairs from John's room to Sherlocks and burst through the door, which he could neither confirm nor deny was now smashed off his hinges. 

  
" _ **NO!! PLEASE!! I'LL DO ANYTHING!! JUST STOP ALL OF THIS!! LEAVE THEM ALONE!!"**_ _  
  
"_John? John! You're having a nightmare! Wake up!" Greg hesitantly walked towards John's now thrashing form, not wishing to get too close.

  
_**"SHERLOCK!! MYCROFT!!!"**_ John's anguished cries paid little attention to Greg's words. _**"MARY! STOP! NO DON'T SHOOT!! NO DON'T DO THAT-"**_ John broke off mid sentence, screaming in agony.

  
Having enough of watching his friend torture himself, Greg strode forward and pounced, pinning down his distressed friend. He instantly regretted it. John went haywire. His military training kicked in and he bucked Gregory off, reaching for his gun, blinking awake as he did, freezing and looking around his surroundings, confused, and panicked.

  
"Greg? Mate? Wha' the 'ell is 'appening?" Tiredness causing him to slur his words.

  
"Uh, you were having a nightmare i guess? Thrashing and screaming and the like. I didn't know what to do."

  
"I was? I don't remember it, thank god for that, huh? Why were you up though, and dont try tell me you weren't, you forget who I live with."

  
"..."

  
"..." John raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms.

  
"Fine. I didn't want to sleep, in case I had a nightmare."

  
John nodded, and led him back upstairs into his bed. "Right, then I'll watch you, wake you if you appear to be in distress."

Gregory opened his mouth to protest that John needed more sleep, but he yawned, and fell asleep instead, John keeping vigil for hours, putting on caffeine patches from a hiding hole of his, needing to stay awake for his friend. Who didn't need to know he may or may not have remembered the nightmare after all, Greg was the one who was in need currently, not John. Just like when John eases Sherlock's new nightmares that rose since Sherrinford, Sherlock was important then, John comes second. He'll be fine, of course he will. He always is. He always is... He has to be. If he isn't, who will be? Who will be the rock for everyone if he isn't? Sherlock and Mycroft are too stubborn and emotionally stunted, Greg needs a rock the most. John will live with being it, he doesn't need fine. He was fine. John was just fine, right...?


	6. A lead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, imma just do this, Trigger warning definitely, just cause part of it is being from the victims point of view, all of it, up until the death, and if you've read this far, then im sure you know what that implies. I would like it on the record that i do not endorse, or encourage any of this, it is simply a story that i have come up with.
> 
> On a lighter note, the Inn mentioned is a real thing, the pods and such.

Dani's night had been normal enough. She had gone to her group therapy, her prescription had been renewed, all her scars were just that, scars. For once, in a long time, she felt happy. So why did she get a sense of foreboding? The feeling of being followed crawled over her skin, burrowing deep, she turned at every slight sound, every sudden movement. After jumping for the 50th time, she made a decision. She texted some friends from the group that she didn't feel safe, and to check in on her in the morning, then she went to buy several books, a charger and a change of clothes, and caught a cab to St Christophers Inn, where she checked in to a pod.

  
She got directed to the room and entered the pod she had been directed to. Putting the pillow at the far end, she closed the curtain, put her phone on charge, and put in some ear buds, listening to music as she read. It took half an hour for her to calm down enough to focus and read the first page, let alone chapter. Barely 3 chapters in and the room burst into life, the sounds of chattering voices over lapped her music and with a growl she turned it up louder, jumping half out of her skin when someone opened her blind, and glaring at them until they shut it with an apologetic wave. To steady her now shot nerves, she pulled out a small bottle of vodka and took a swig, chasing it down with another one, and another, until it was half empty. Then she added Orange Juice to it and took sips as she read, snacking on some chocolate and pringles she had also bought. 

  
When she finished the first book, she stretched and checked the time, surprised that it was only 8.30pm, before realising that her room was once again quiet, peeking her head out, she saw all but 2 or three had left the room, she smiled in relief, seeing the also shut curtains, feeling the call of nature, she left and relieved herself, quickly returning to her pod, stumbling slightly as she finally feels the effects of her Vodka. Getting back, she checked the replies.

  
**[2 unread messages from Don]  
[1 unread message from Amy]  
[6 unread messages from Sally]  
[3 unread messages from Mark]**

She checks in order from most to least, just in order to possibly alleviate any worries they may have for her.  
  


**[ Messages from Sally:]  
** **Dani, are you okay? What happened?** _  
Sent at 5.30pm._

 **  
Are you Safe? Do you need to stay over?** _  
Sent at 5.35pm._

 **  
Please reply.** _  
Sent at 5.45pm._

 _  
_ **Maybe I'm just overreacting, knowing you, you're probably just reading and haven't yet noticed the texts.** _  
Sent at 6.00pm._

 _  
_ **Okay, it's been an hour and you haven't yet replied, I'm really getting worried about you, if you don't reply in the next hour, I'll report you missing, the things I've seen lately.** _  
Sent at 7.30pm._

 **Last warning, Or I'm sending every squad car I can to your place and every alley around.** _  
Sent at 8.08pm._

**Sally, sorry, you were right, I was reading with music up loud.  
I am safe, I don't need to stay at your house, I'm staying at St Christophers Inn for the night.**  
_Sent at 8.10pm._

**[ Messages from Mark:]  
****Dan? Whats up? Whats wrong?** _  
__Sent at 5.00pm_.

 **Danielle? Is it a danger night? Have you relapsed? Need me to come over? _  
_** _Sent at 6.00pm._

 **Okay, Dani, sweetie, you are worrying me, answer me please.** _  
_ _Sent at 8.00pm._

**Sorry Mark, I got caught up in my book. Its not a danger night, just felt I was being followed.  
I'm safe, just staying in a pod for the night. Arms are clean.  
So are my thighs. Promise.** _  
Sent at 8.12pm._

**[Messages from Don:]** **  
** **Will do Dan. Keep safe. Don't be afraid to message if you need anything.** _  
_ _Sent at 5.00pm._

  
**I'm sure it was just nothing though, you'll be fine, you're a strong woman.** _  
Sent at_ _5.13pm._

**Yea, Don, I'm sure you are right, rather be safe and let you know than have it be something and no one know.** _  
_ _Sent at 8.13pm._

**[Message from Amy:]  
** **k sure, hey, wnt 2 hng out 2mrrw?** _  
Sent at 7.45pm._

**No thanks.** _  
Sent at 8.14pm._

  
  


Messages checked and read, she smiled, seeing her friends worried, helped elevate her own worry, except maybe Amy. Maybe when this was all over she'd treat Mark, Don and Sally to a nice meal as a thank you. She settled with a new book and read for hours, until she fell asleep, head resting on the book, the empty bottle of vodka beside her with the empty packets of chocolate surrounding her. A few times she stirred at a few odd noises, giggling, some music, a few thuds and scraping sounds, until she woke a few hours later, the toilet beckoning once more.

  
She padded out to the bathrooms, and upon her return rubbed her eyes, looking at the other pods briefly, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, before entering hers again. Repacking her bag with read books, she put it at her feet, near the blind and checked her phone again, smiling at the reassuring texts from her friends. She'd just started drifting off when she saw her curtain twitch open, and saw an unfamiliar figure that set her whole body on edge, firing every alarm at once, hastily, she grabbed her phone and sent a single message.

  
**[ To Sally:]  
** **Help!** _  
Sent at 2.23am._  
  


The figure crawled over her and grabbed the phone, tossing it and the bag out into the room, before quickly removing her clothes with a knife, with gentle precision, tossing the ruined garments out as well, pinning down her shoulders hard enough to leave a bruise, he, for she was sure it was male by now, forced open her legs and with one thrust entered her. Her scream echoed around the pod, which, to her shock caused her assailant to let out a moan of pleasure, his thrusting became more animalistic and rough and she could feel bruises forming, with a final grunt, he finished into the condom he wore. Holding a knife to her throat, in a calm voice, he spoke.

  
"Write your note. Make it short."

  
It took her a while to gasp out the words, her chest heaving as she fought the floating feeling that came before her dissociative episodes. "W-what? My, my, my note?"

  
He rolled his eyes and growled low. "Yes. Write. Your. Suicide. Note. Don't mention anything. Just a short message."

  
She got handed paper, and with a shaky hand she wrote a small message on the paper, adding what he told her to at the end, and he took it, pulling out finally and placing the note just outside. Before crawling back over her, from the light in the pod, she saw the sadistic smile that adorned his face. Leaning over her face so he could see the reaction, he grabbed his knife once more, and sliced down her arms deeply, enjoying the scream that tore from her, before letting out a yell of her own, as in the split moment he closed his eyes, she bit a chunk off his nose and held it in her mouth. In a fit of rage he pinned her arms to the bed with two knifes and shoved his usual one up her freshly raped hole, watching the pain in her eyes, as the energy to scream had left her. His knife danced along her torso, between her ribs, and punctured her breasts, before slicing her organs to shreds.

  
Panting, he stood over her shallowly breathing body, mentally taking a photo of her and the surrounding bodies in each pod, before leaving, pinning the message to the front of her pod, cleaning up, and leaving.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sally woke with an uneasy feeling. The echoes of her nightmare dancing around her, she checked her phone and saw the time, yawning, about to fall asleep, before the unread message registered in her mind.

  
**[Unread message from** **Dani :]** **  
** **Help!** _  
_ _Sent at 2.23am._

That was two hours ago. She cursed to herself and turned on her lamp, stumbling to the light switch and getting dressed with one hand, making a phone call with the other.

  
"All available units to St Christopher's Inn. I repeat all available units to St Christopher's Inn!"

  
She stumbled to her call, fingers flying over her keys, sending a message to the unknown higher up in charge of the case.

  
**On route to another possible victim in the case, will update you when confirmed. -Sergeant Donovan.**

  
Turning on the lights of her unmarked car, she sped all the way to the inn, showing her badge to the bored receptionist, she unlocked the door to the room and froze at the scene. Only one word described what awaited her. Bloodbath. She stumbled outside and managed to send one text before emptying the contents of her stomach.

  
**Confirmed.**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft stepped out of his car at exactly 4.45am, only 15 minutes after the report of the latest body had been found. He stared over the building, questioning the change in locations. He walked over to the scene, and walked under the tape, stopping at the peculiar sight of Sergeant Donovan, sitting on the steps of the paramedics, with a shock blanket over her, looking dazed.

"Sergeant Donovan? Why are you out here and not leading the investigation?"

She stared blankly at him, blinking, before weakly pulling herself together. "I, I'm too close to this victim. I, I knew her, spoke, texted her only hours before hand." She held out the phone on the screen of texts, which he took and read over, as she seemed to snap more out of it, "I'm sorry, who are you? I haven't seen you before I don't think..."

  
"You have before, on one separate occasion. I am Mycroft Holmes," he paused at the flicker of registration, and saw her start to whisper 'freak', "Yes, brother of Sherlock, and partner to your boss, neither of which is your concern, however, I am here on behalf of both of them, as well as Doctor Watson who has more pressing matters. Don't worry, I shall see myself in."

  
He walked past her, intending to grab a pair of gloves, when his arm got grabbed, and he looked down into horror struck eyes, "a word of warning, it's a bloodbath in there."

With a nod, he proceeded to the room, pausing at the sight. Apart from the blood, he immediately noticed one other thing, the note. Walking delicately over to it, he read:  
' _I'm sorry. For everything, thank you Sally, Mark and Don for being great friends. Ps, check the top left locker.'_

  
Standing out of the way of the forensic photographer, he checked the locker mentioned, pulling out the bag and pulled out the contents, including the phone, which he scrolled through, before tossing it to Anderson, who only had a job again because of him. It was bagged with a scowl, which was ignored, as he pulled out the shredded clothes, putting them also into a bag after examining the cut marks, a note in the bag caused him to pause.  
_'The little bitch deserved every thing I did afterwards, she was sweet too. I might enjoy her friends next.'_

  
A sick feeling rolled through him, halted only by his thick iceman mask. He gave it to Anderson with strict instructions to give it to him after it had been catalogued, and he made a mental note to freshen up his handwriting analysis.

The rest in the bag was mundane, books she was reading, and snack rubbish. Ignoring the other bodies, which was clearly collateral, donning a protective overall, just in case, he peered into the pod, reeling back and gagging at the sight and smell of all the blood. Ordinarily he prided himself on an iron stomach, but this was different, he accepted a mask and peered back in, he focused on her face first, and noticed something, off about her mouth, he held his hand out and asked for a pair of tweezers, using them to pull something out of her mouth. Pulling it out and coming out to look at it in the light, he smiled, finally, a worthy lead.

  
"Is that-"

  
"Yes, looks like the tip of the killers nose, no wonder he was angry. Get a rush on it to pathology. To see if the DNA fits anyone in the system."

  
With a final glance, he dictated his findings to an available officer, removed the outer wear, and left the scene, heading to Baker Street to inform John on the updated case. Hoping he was in a better mood after some sleep.

  
When he arrived at the flat and let himself in, he wasn't entirely surprised to see Sherlocks bed empty, and instead made his way up to Johns room, knocking, just in case before entering. On the bed was his Gregory, fast asleep, looking peaceful and relaxed. Satisfied, his gaze switched to Doctor Watson, at least 5 caffeine patches on his bare arm, which clearly wasn't enough, as he was fitfully sleeping, a deep frown etched in his face, as Mycroft watched, John started twitching and muttering in his sleep, before he got too loud, he strode over and placed a hand on the distressed mans shoulder, jolting him awake with a gasp.   
  


"John, let's go downstairs and have a cup of tea."

  
The ex-soldier nodded, shoulders tense, and stumbled down the stairs, yawning, making the tea as the two sat down and stared at each other. John clearly fighting sleep and darting his eyes back up to the room, before his eyes drifted shut again. Mycroft took the opportunity to truly look at him, _clearly exhausted, constant nightmares if what earlier is to go by. The patches indicating that as a result he's been fighting sleep, likely woke with a nightmare last night, and volunteered to watch over Greg,_ I'll confirm that with him later, _likely having every intention of following through, until exhaustion caused him to pass out. His need to help his friends before himself is wearing him out, at this rate he'll put himself into hospital too, especially at the expense of this case, hasn't seen his therapist in months, likely not since the Eurus incident. Which may have caused a deep distrust in the profession. He's getting close to his own version of a danger night._

  
"Stop that."

  
"Hmm? Stop what Doctor Watson?"

  
"How many times do I have to tell you, it's John, and stop, reading me, deducing me, 'm fine. Why're you here?"  
  


"Oh are you 'fine' John? Because I believe I just woke you from the starts of a nightmare. But, I am here because a new victim has been found."

  
"Blimey that was fast." He sips at the tea, "But why are you telling me? Why now I mean, clearly you just came from it, otherwise I would have gotten a text."

  
"You are correct, I have been myself to investigate, I thought you and Greg needed the sleep, I'm telling you though, because the newest victim has bitten off the nose of her assailant, and also, because she was a friend of Sergeant Donovan. And he threatened her life, as well as a few others. In a few hours I'd like you to go to St Barts and help Ms Hooper examine the body. For now, how is Greg?"

  
"Ask me yourself, or deduce yourself." Yawned Greg, walking down the stairs, raising an eyebrow when he saw the patches on John's arm, turning his gaze questioningly to Mycroft, who simply sent a 'I'll explain later.' 

  
He sat himself on Mycrofts lap and kissed him softly, snuggling into his chest, before stealing a sip of Mycroft's tea, raising an eyebrow at the lack of response from John, and together they looked over, at the once again prone, sleeping body. Mycroft moved them both to the sofa so they could keep an eye on him and quietly converse.

  
"So, what happened last night? With him?"

  
"Yes, he had a nightmare, I can tell that's where you're heading. He woke me with anguished screams, begging someone to stop, he called your name, and Sherlock's, and begged Mary to stop too. I tried waking him not long after, he fought, then came to, he denied remembering the nightmare, and then offered to stay up, I was too tired to try argue."

  
"He's too stubborn, he'd rather look after you, and Sherlock, than himself..."

  
"You too."

  
"Hmmm?"

  
"He wants to look after you too, he never said it, but, I know he does. You're family."

"... I know he does, he already did a lot in Sherrinford..."

  
"What, what do you mean?"

  
"He took a lot of the injuries, every time it looked like she was going to kill me, he called her back to him. I, I own my life to him Greg."

  
"Nd I'd do it again..." A mumbled voice interrupted them. John blearily staring at them. Heaving himself out of the chair and stumbling for the coffee, applying fresh patches as he does, ignored the barely veiled concern following him.

  
"Can we visit Sherlock again soon? Within the hour soon?"

  
Mycroft nodded an 'of course' and made the arrangements necessary. Once John was done and prepared they all entered the car and drove to the hospital, John dozing in the car once again, his head resting on Gregs shoulder, as he and Mycroft exchanged glances, holding each others hands. When they reached the hospital Gregory tried shaking John gently awake, but other than a mumble he stayed out of it, so his partner got out, went around to the door, and lifted John easily, frowning as he feels a bit of weight loss. 

  
The nurses gave them looks as they walked to Sherlock's room, but otherwise paid them no mind. Gregory opened the door, just in time to see Sherlock trying to pull his IV out and remove his oxygen, freezing when the door opened. His eyes went first to Greg, reading and deducing him easy as anything, a small frown adorning his face as he finished, before glancing over to Mycroft, doing a double take when he noticed John, half getting out of bed to go to him before a coughing fit over took him, causing him to collapse into Gregs open arms, and getting helped back into bed, being moved over to make room for John, who Sherlock watched get laid down.

  
"What-" he breaks into coughing again, taking a breath from his oxygen before wheezing out, "what happened to him?"

  
"... You're joking, right? He's joking?" He turned to Mycroft for a brief second, rolling his eyes as he opened his mouth, "forget it, it was a rhetorical question, I know he's not joking, unfortunately. Mate, you are what happened. You, and me, shut up Myc, I know that ain't proper grammar, this case, and nightmares from Sherrinford. The idiot has been worrying himself for months over Sherrinford, knowing he can't talk to his boyfriend because the moronic genius locked the memory away, again, so he instead keeps up with his boyfriends sleep pattern, whatever that may be to get rid of his nightmares. He takes care of you instead, and makes sure all of us are happy and fine, because he can't look after himself, and then this case happens, and I happen, so he gets more worried, you get sick visiting me, he doesn't notice you getting worse, so he gets hysterical, has a go at Myc about it, hating himself for it, triggering himself into a flashback, which later triggers himself into nightmares last night because he hasn't been sleeping because he's worried about YOU!!"

  
The silver haired man sits back and pants, catching his breath as it keeps hitching, watching Sherlock take everything in and slide his hand under John's shirt and sweater, telling exactly when he feels each scar, giving a small smile as he encloses the smaller man in his arms. Bowing his head in apology and placing a gentle kiss on his relaxed form. 

  
Mycroft watches as his brothers eyes slide over him finally, first stopping on where his scars are, inclining his head in a small nod of confirmation. 

  
"I apologise for my actions. I see dear brother you went to the latest crime scene? What was different this time? Oh, a lead? Did you find a lead?"

  
Before Mycroft could reply John flinched in his sleep, crying out in pain, and clutching Sherlock tightly, whimpering, everyones eyes drawn to him, until with a final twitch he settled again into Sherlock's embrace. Mycroft took the opportunity to sit down and tell Sherlock, and by extension Greg, exactly everything he had found at the crime scene, Greg watching in amusement as the two brothers bounced ideas off each other, curling up and hugging his partners arm.


	7. Support

"John?"

  
"Mmph."

  
"John?"

"Nnnwah?"

  
"John!" A hand reaches out and grabs John's arm, and he jolts awake, bolting upright, and looking over the room, with the empty bed, panicked filled eyes meeting Molly's, asking a silent question.

  
"Sherlock has gone for a wander around with Greg, so that he won't run off, I'm here to take you to look at the newest victim. If you don't mind me asking, are you okay John? You look exhausted."

  
"I'm fine Molly, you know how it is looking after Sherlock, and this new case isn't exactly easy, you don't need to worry."

  
He stands up, looking a bit unsteady as he does so, Molly takes a step forth to steady him, but a look from him and she stops, blinking a few times, he runs his hand through his hair and walks towards her, yawning and taking the coffee she offered. Together the two walked towards the morgue, worry radiating off John as they did. 

  
When they got there, she offered gloves, which he took, and with a nod of readiness, she took off the sheet, watching him stumble back at the viciousness of the wounds. Giving him time to breath, she pulled him over to what she'd been testing since she got it. 

  
"Is that..."

  
"The killers nose? Yes. She bit it off. Have you done Autopsies before John?"

  
He stares in awe at the nose, before shaking his head to clear it, "No, I haven't, but I can tell cause of death, and I do recognise wounds. _Just not flu symptoms apparently."_ The last part was murmured low, but not too low that Molly couldn't hear it.

  
They walked back over to the body, and looked over the injuries together. With gloved hands, as careful as possible, his hands darted over the skin, brushing the gashes, Molly watched his gentle nature for a second, before moving onto the more private area, taking swabs of it. The two worked in silence, looking over every slice, every puncture, until the machine that was running DNA let out a noise, indicating it was finished, which Molly ran over to and checked it, scrunching her nose in irritation.

  
"What? Anything?"

  
"No, nothing. A partial match, and thats it, and by partial I mean likely a distant relative. It was a slim lead."

  
The door burst open, with Sherlock clutching his IV stand, his oxygen mask hanging around his neck, Lestrade following close after him. "It may be slim, but its still something, what have you two got for me?"

  
"I'm sorry, I couldn't stop him, he just raced down here..." Lestrade trailed off as his eyes found the body, rapidly paling at the sight of the blood and the gashes.

  
"Well? Come on? Findings? got a killer to catch!"

  
"Sherlock... Fine, the arms seem to be the initial cuts, which is rapidly becoming his signature. After that, it appears is when she bit his nose off, as that's when the rest of these appeared, Molly has confirmed her, vagina was indeed next, before he moved onto the torso. This time it is inconclusive whether rape occurred," John paused, as out of the corner of his eye, he caught Lestrade flinch hard, taking a breath a continuing with his Doctor Watson mask. "From the torso it is hard to tell where he started first, but its clear it was less thought through, done with a lot of rage and aggression not seen in his other victims, each other one was clearly thought out. Dani ruined whatever plan he had by first off, alerting her friends to the thought of being followed, secondly by checking into St Christopher, which of course caused the quick deaths of all those also checked in, and thirdly, by attacking back, biting his nose clear off. He'll likely strike again soon, since his initial plan was disrupted. Considering how organised he seems to be, he won't yet go for the three he targeted, Sally, Mark and Don, going by how he has been so far, he'll likely wait till Dani isn't as fresh before slowly picking them off. Tox screens and stomach contents indicate she had been drinking all night, likely purchased when she discovered she was being followed.   
The rage shown towards her body shows that the killer may have a disliking towards females, especially those who reject him harshly. In his rage he also pinned her down into the bed with two extra knives, he didn't wish her to fight back, so he's strong to be able to do that, the amount of blood here and the previous victim indicates his blood lust is rising. Molly, did I miss anything? Sherlock, do you see anything extra?"

  
Molly shook her head, while Sherlock stood there, transfixed, staring at his John. Eyes sparkling as he stares at him, mouth dropped open, shaking his head slowly. Striding across the room, he hugged John as hard as he could, whispering in his ear, "Brilliant, fantastic." Sending shivers down his spine, backing away. 

  
_John has lost weight. How did I not notice? I pay attention to everything. Is it like how I didn't notice his lack of sleep? His nightmares? His scars? Granted, we aren't physical, but surely I would have noticed when he showers, or we shower together. No, I've been too busy with cases. I'm sure Mycroft noticed though, I'll ask him later. I've been slipping, John can't be the one who looks after everyone._

  
"...lock? Sherlock?"

  
"Hmmmm?"

  
"Where'd you disappear to? We need to get you back to bed, before the nurses notice and get huffy. Just, behave, alright?" 

  
"Yes Lestrade."

  
"See you later Molly, John, get some more rest. Seriously, you look awful."

  
With that Greg all but dragged Sherlock out of the morgue, who was looking at John with a puzzled, deducting face, a flash of concern darting across just before his face disappears from view. John made to leave after them, feeling Molly's eyes on him.

  
"John?"

  
He sighed, hand on the door, he was so close from just, leaving. "Yes Molly?"

  
"Are, are you okay?"

  
"I'm fine, why do you ask?" 

  
She grabbed his shoulder, causing him to flinch, and turned him back to face her, tugging him away from the door, getting a proper look at him.  
  
"Well for starters, you just flinched at a slight touch. And frankly, Greg is right, you look awful, you have since, well, since you, Sherlock and Mycroft returned from that awful, awful place. John, what happened? No one ever told me, could you, please?"

  
John shifted uneasily, giving her a pleading look. "Molly, I, I don't know if I can..."

  
She puts her hands on his shoulders, and sits him down on a chair, rubbing his shoulders comfortingly. "John, it'll help. Please, for me."

  
He stared into her soft, understanding eyes, sighing and giving her a nod. "Most of its better to just show you, rather than tell."

  
Understanding, she moved back, watching as he removed his sweater and the plaid shirt underneath, her hand flying to her mouth as she sees the scars. Her eyes following the scars, "You can touch them..." Her heart shattered at how resigned and hurt he sounded, her hand brushing along the Y-incision of the autopsy scar that was performed on him, she followed each line between his ribs, surprised when she realised some of his ribs had been removed, she brushed along the nubs of where they were sawed off, apologising when he flinched. He turned around and she saw his back was just as scarred, she traced the marks of flaps that would have showed off his organs, and scars of whole skin removed to see the muscles without needing to slice into them, those scars she saw, made it along his arms. As she looked at one of the scars, she got a closer look at his neck, seeing slices around his larynx. She backed away, and patiently waited.

  
"It, it was hell Mol, I found myself wishing I was back at Afghanistan... We got there after finding out, Eurus Holmes, yes, Sherlock's sister, had been getting out with help from the staff, she, played us from the start. She was in control the whole time, I said that we were soldiers, but really, we were prisoners of war, her war. We got tested, with small simple cases, the call to you, the one where you had to say, those words, then she feigned giving a choice to Sherlock, Mycroft or me, he had to shoot one of us, instead, we all got knocked out, gassed.  
Mycroft and I, we woke on operating tables, still in the prison, she did this on both Mycroft and I, different incisions of course, more than once I had to save Mycroft, she got close to killing him twice. While that happened, Sherlock had to follow clues, to find us. You, you can't, you can't imagine the pain Mols... I've never heard Mycroft scream like that. I, I was forced to watch as she tortured him, and vice versa... She tied us down, and gave us no painkillers, no numbing things... I can still feel the blades, her hands on my organs, my lungs. She punctured my spleen Molly... And, and, she, hid us so well, it took Sherlock a few days to find us, days, within the prison, because the other prisoners were out, and she had him dosed with some chemical that limited his brain power for 24 hours, I don't even know how we survived...  
Molly... I can't sleep, I dream about it all the time... I'm just, so tired, but Sherlock is struggling, and Greg needs help, and Mycroft hasn't accepted Sherrinford either, I have to be there for them..."

  
He leaned forward onto her, exhausted and boneless. Grunting in surprise, she held him as he unexpectedly starts crying on her shoulder, she spotted Greg's face in the glass of the door to the morgue, and she realised he must have had the nurses sedate Sherlock, as she sent him a silent ' _help? what do i do?'_ look. He bit his lip in thought, before re-entering the room, making his presence known loudly to the distressed man, he tapped his hand on Johns shoulder, and smiled when he turned around and attached himself to Greg instead. Molly mouthed a silent 'thank you' at him, he nodded and guided the man to a more isolated part, the two of them sitting on the floor, at that point, John clung to Greg, sobbing more, surprising the older man. 

  
_He must have really been exhausted and on eggshells lately. How'd Sherlock not notice how wound up his partner was? John is almost never like this, the only times I've seen him like this was after Sherlocks fake death, and Marys death... and even still, this feels worse. Sherlock was right in his remark too, he has lost weight. Not surprising, if he truly went through what Myc told me. I need to thank him too, for saving my Myc, after the aftermath has blown through though, and this god awful case is gone. Maybe I could coax him to sleep again, he can stay with Myc and I at ours. Yea._

  
John had settled down while Greg had been thinking, and was busy wiping his face, muttering apologies to Greg and Molly for his behaviour.

  
"Nonsense mate. Happens to us all, we're here for you, don't forget that. Why don't tonight, you sleep over at my place?"

  
John sighed, standing and offering a hand to help Greg up, he looked drained, and colourless, "Sure, better than being alone at Baker place, can we visit Sherlock for now though?"

  
"Actually, John, my lunch break is coming up, and I normally eat at a nice little cafe down the street, how about we all go together? My shout."

  
Molly and Greg share a small nod, beaming as John agrees, and they head towards the cafe together.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He prowled the aisles of the pharmacy, casually glancing at exposed forearms, staring at covered ones, as he eavesdropped on conversations at the counter, carefully putting up a pretence of being nervous and playing with his sleeves as he placed down gauze, plasters, tape and antiseptic on the counter, knowing to anyone normal it'll seem like a normal purchase, but to his, choice, it'd resonate with them. Getting no bites, he took his leave with his purchase.

  
He browsed the streets, continuing his checking, while he looked up the time of the next support group, smiling inwardly when he saw he had two hours till it, just enough time for bait. He shoved his hands into his hoodie, fiddling with his purchase, grinning as he ran his thumb along his blade. As he was making his way to a nearby public toilet, he sneezed, suddenly and painfully, groaning and clutching his nose, gingerly feeling the gauze on its tip, sighing in relief as there was no blood bleeding through. 

  
Entering the toilets, he checked every stall, before entering the one for disabled people or parents, carefully removing his hoodie and placing it on the changing table, getting out his instruments. Grabbing his sharp blade, he rested it on his forearm, closing his eyes, and drawing it across the skin, hissing softly as relief and numbness floods his system, before flexing his arm, pleased he still had full function, drawing two more cuts along the first, checking they were deep enough so they could bleed two hours later still, with a nod, he let it bleed. For good measure, he methodically drew lines across his ribs, and then on his thigh, covering all the bases, he let them all bleed for a while, before dressing each one, starting with his thigh, and finally his arm. Checking each one once they were covered, smiling when they were. Perfect. Cleaning his blade, and flushing all evidence away, he ruffled his hair pulling on the hoodie, shrinking in it, he pulled the hoodie up around him and checked his reflection in the mirror. Perfect. He looked the part.

  
With an hour till the meeting, or at least till he should move there, he sat at a local popular cafe, and ordered a drink and a slice of brownie, setting up the pretence of reading, while he people watched. He multi-tasked, reading his book, while flicking his eyes through the crowd, eyes darting to primarily the forearms. Where every _cutter_ every _self-harmer_ started, before moving on to places to hide, he saw hints of scars, but not what he was looking for, he wasn't too worried, he had the group, with plenty of pickings for him.

  
Eventually it was time for him to move on. Clinging to the book like it was a lifeline, and hunching up to get into character, he walked to the meeting. He knew by now. People don't care. They see, but they don't truly _see_ and if they did, they don't interfere. It disgusted him. Society's reaction, or lack thereof sickened him. So, he took matters into his own hands.

  
He entered the meeting, inwardly smiling, this is what he was looking for. He could smell the thick smell of depression. Feel the heaviness of suicidal thoughts. The smothering, choking feel of anxiety. The heavy fog of dissociation. Taking a breath to centre himself, he himself shrouded himself in the cloak that made him fit in so well with them, lingering in the background, like any newbie would, waiting until the leader gestured him forward, and he joined the group hesitantly. Sitting in one of the empty chairs, he withdrew into himself, making himself seem small, while gauging every ones reactions. 

  
He listened as the leader said they had a few new faces, and would they like to share, staring right him, and he bowed his head, nodding, clearing his throat and shifting nervously.

  
"Uh, hi, I'm Will. I uh, actually had an accident that lead to coming to today..." He rolled up his sleeve, showing the bandages, inwardly smirking when he saw the previous cuts had bled through, his smirk intensifying as a few occupants shifted in their seats, some of them subconsciously rubbing or scratching their locations of choice. Satisfied he rolled it back down, "Uh, sorry. I just, need to stop, i know i do, but everything just gets so much, you know? Everything built up, and before I knew it, I had grabbed the blade and cut. The feel of the blade slicing through my skin, and the blood bleeding out, it just felt so good. I watched for a while, before the guilt sat in and I took care of it. It took a while, I kept just watching the blood, as if in a trance. It made me want to slice more, you know?"

  
Before he could continue, the leader spoke up, "I'm sorry Will, i should have said, we don't go into graphic detail in here, we're all recovering in some way, and detail could cause relapses."

  
He looked around the room, satisfied for the looks of discomfort, and the looks of longing. He could tell from a look which of them were longer into their recovery, and from that, he started scoping out his next victim. With a nod of apology, he remained silent, listening to everyone elses stories.

  
At the end one of the longer ones came over and introduced themself.

  
"Hi, Will was it? I'm Aria, not sure if you remember? I've been coming to this group for a few years now, and I like to help newbies like you, I couldn't help but notice earlier, you're bandages are bleeding through, is it okay if I just, help replace them? maybe clean and look at the cuts?"

  
He shyly nodded, allowing her to lead him to the room they used for first aid, looking at her figure from behind and smiling, she would do perfectly. She turned and shut the door behind him, and instantly he adopted the shy persona again. She got him to sit opposite her, and she unravelled the bandages, completely focused on the task.

  
"So, do you have anyone who can help look after you, Will?"

  
"No, I have no one, no one cares about me."

  
"Oh, well, do you have anywhere to stay?"

  
"I do, I have a flat, but, it has many knives, and, right now I might use them..." He pouted and looked down, working on making himself look pathetic.

  
"Look, how about this, just until you feel better, you stay with me, sound good? I'm clean, nothing too dangerous, I can keep an eye on you, and I can help change you're bandages, not to mention, you can talk to me if you feel the urge."

  
"You often make this offer to the newbies?"

  
"Only the ones who seem they need the help."

  
"How many is that?"

  
"Not as many as you'd think. So?"

  
"I'll take you up on your offer. Thank you."

  
"No problem. I'll just finish this and we'll go."

  
Perfect. She was just what he was looking for, she'd be much better than his last one. Maybe he'd have a little more fun before he finished with her.


End file.
